Noble's Savior

by Jerry Sacher

  He passed his first night in the capital sleeping in a factory workers’ dorm. Sergei had heard about them, but nothing in his imagination had prepared him for what he found. On a side street across the river in the Vyborg industrial district, stood the low timber building, its windows coated by frost and the breath of what seemed like hundreds of men and their families, all crowded together in a common room around smoking wood stoves. The beds themselves were only long stiff pallets, sleeping a dozen people on one space. The threadbare gray wool blankets barely kept out the chill.

  The dorm smelled of old food, urine, sickness, and unwashed bodies. All night long figures moved about the smoky room, lit only by the dirty, cracked globes of smoking oil lamps. Sergei lay in bed with his shoes and valuables hidden under his body. He kept awake, listening to snoring, swearing, tearful prayers before the icons in the corner, the grunts of someone making love, and the clomp of boots from the police patrol. He wondered when all these sounds would die down and everyone would sleep—if sleep were possible. He sat up, and on the pallet at his feet lay the handsomest young man he had ever seen.

  Black hair poked out from under the man’s workers’ cap, and his blue eyes stared at Sergei. He smiled and sat up as well.

  “Can’t sleep either, eh? If you stay here long enough, you’ll get used to it.” The young man jerked a thumb toward an old man next to him, who added his snores to the cacophony of sounds keeping Sergei awake. The man stood and motioned for Sergei to follow him. They walked in silence through the dorm to another common room in the back, lined with benches and tables.

  “I’m Petr.” He extended a slender, oil-stained hand, which Sergei shook as he introduced himself.

  Petr grabbed a bottle of vodka and two glasses from a cupboard and poured for each of them. Sergei raised his glass to Petr, who raised his in turn.

  “God bless and good health.”

  Petr echoed his toast, and they drained their glasses, then slammed them on the table so Petr could pour another. Sergei was warming up fast, and judging from the look on Petr’s face, Sergei felt he amused his companion, so he was willing to oblige.

  “You’re new here, I can tell. You don’t have the look of a factory worker.”

  “Yes, I got here this morning from the provinces just down the Neva—”

  Petr sat back on his bench and didn’t allow Sergei to speak further. “God knows where you’ll find a job. There are none to be had, unless you want to earn fifty kopecks a day, plus a ration of black bread and borscht.” Petr crossed himself hastily. He took one hearty swig of vodka and slapped Sergei on the back.

  “That fifty kopecks will go fast, especially around this place, but not for much longer.” Petr’s eyes sparkled, and he crossed himself again.

  “Why is that?” Sergei inquired.

  His friend leaned over and whispered, “We workers are planning another demonstration this week. Thursday morning, everything will shut down, and thousands of us will take to the streets to demand better conditions and pay. Perhaps one of the Bolshevik leaders will speak to us and maybe even someone who has a message from Lenin himself.”

  “Who are the Bolsheviks?”

  Petr replied by putting a finger to his lips and reaching into the folds of his dirty wool coat. He pulled out a small book that he handed to Sergei.

  “This will explain who we are and our goals.”

  “I take it you’re one of these Bolsheviks?” Sergei asked, and Petr nodded proudly.

  Sergei looked at the first couple of pages in silence and glanced up to see a strange fire in his companion’s eyes. Like a fox ready to spring on its prey, Petr looked about him, as if to assure their privacy, and then he leaned forward and planted his lips on Sergei’s.

  The kiss did not surprise Sergei as much as it should. In fact, he welcomed it and responded with a deep, passionate kiss of his own. He gripped the lapels of Petr’s jacket and pulled him closer. Reaching down, he felt Petr stiffening through the fabric of his pants. Sergei’s own pants strained to contain his manhood as he ground against his partner. The experience was short-lived as the thump of approaching footsteps broke them apart. They were breathless when a policeman poked his head through the door and shouted at them to return to their beds.

  The next morning Sergei awoke, his eyes stinging from the hanging smoke of the wood stoves, but his lover, Petr, was nowhere in sight.

  Sergei had been fortunate to be accepted into the 2nd Guards Cavalry Division, as the commander explained to him.

  “So many of these positions are hereditary, from father to son and so on, but with the Tercentenary of the Romanovs, we need all of Mother Russia’s loyal sons.” The commander continued in the same vein while Sergei thought the man looked like a walrus, with his mustache and puffed-out chest. “Why are you grinning, young man?” the officer questioned him sternly, but Sergei made no answer.

  SERGEI’S FEVERED brain still saw his commander’s face hovering close, shouting orders, his medals and gold braid sparkling in the sunlight. He also heard two male voices somewhere faraway, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. Half opening his eyes, he saw he was still in the back room of the rail station, but what day or time it was, he didn’t know. Sergei tried to get up, but firm hands pressed him back onto the mattress once more.

  Chapter 3

  BENJAMIN STARED over the edge of his book and out the window of the train. He couldn’t see much except snow and occasionally a dull-colored village that sprung up and flew past, replaced by more snow and perhaps a muddy road. He sat back against the hard bench of the train carriage and stared around him.

  Soldiers heading for the front crowded every available space—stretched out under seats and sleeping in the aisles, forcing others to walk over them. Benjamin shared his seat with six men who sang and spat sunflower seeds onto the floor. Sometimes Benjamin felt them eyeing him suspiciously, and then they nudged and muttered to one another, nodding in his direction, but he couldn’t make out any of their words.

  At night the train stopped, and it was announced that these last six cars could go no farther. Benjamin, the soldiers, and other passengers began a mad scramble to the remainder of the train. Benjamin made the baggage car just as it started moving, leaving behind the rest who couldn’t move fast enough. Standing at the back of the car, fur coat drawn up against the cold, he watched the people they had left behind; they stood spread out across the tracks, despair written on their faces. Then the night gradually swallowed them.

  He made his way inside and sat next to one of the men he recognized from the last car. Looking at Benjamin under the swinging light of an oil lamp, the man smiled faintly, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a package wrapped in paper. Benjamin watched him open it in the heavy fold of his military coat, and between the flickers of lantern light, he revealed a hunk of black bread, which he broke in half and gave a part to Benjamin.

  “Spasibo. Thank you.”

  Benjamin’s Russian with a British accent must have amused the soldier, because the man suddenly grinned and said in perfect English. “You’re welcome.” He took a bite of bread and chewed slowly.

  “You speak English?” Benjamin said, and then he also popped a piece of the thick bread into his mouth.

  “Yes, my father is one of the tsar’s advisors, and I grew up with English nurses at court. When we return to Petrograd, I’m going to join the infantry in His Majesty’s Army. May I ask what you’re doing on this train, so far from Petrograd?”

  Benjamin pulled the leather portfolio from under his coat. “I’m bringing these papers from King George to the tsar.”

  “Keep your voice down. There are a lot of soldiers around us right now that would tear you to pieces if they knew you were going anywhere near His Majesty. He’s less than popular right now.”

  Benjamin kept silent for a while, and the two men continued to stare at each other. Something in the dark eyes of the young man who shared his bread with him made Benjamin forget the dis
comfort of the hard floor and the bitter cold of this boxcar rocking over the iron rails. He wanted to lean over and kiss those lips under the black mustache. Benjamin could tell, even under the loose peasant clothing, that the man was thin and muscular. The fingers that had handed him the bread were tapered and strong, and Benjamin wanted to have those hands touch him and crush Benjamin’s body to his, but he restrained himself from speaking his feelings.

  They spoke no further, and soon daylight began to appear through the spaces in the railcar. The man sitting next to Benjamin went to sleep, his snores joining the chorus from the men lying around him. Soon Benjamin leaned forward and fell asleep.

  WHEN BENJAMIN opened his eyes, the train had stopped and the railcar was nearly empty, except for a few other nonmilitary passengers sitting on the floor. He was about to ask someone what had happened, when the door of the boxcar slid open and a short heavy man with gray hair and beard, in a khaki uniform stained red, climbed into the car and clapped his hands together.

  “You can go no farther. Get out now!” Then he turned his back and left the car.

  Benjamin jumped out and ran after him, calling for him to halt. The man stopped and turned, his face flashing with anger.

  “Well…?”

  Benjamin explained his mission to the officer, and even after he mentioned King George and the tsar, the officer seemed unimpressed. The man kicked the snow with the toe of his worn boot. He turned to a group of officers standing around a fire and called to one of them, then instructed him to take Benjamin to headquarters, some two or three miles distant. The new man saluted and motioned for Benjamin to follow.

  While they walked toward a large stone building in the distance, Benjamin noticed row after row of stretchers with wounded and dying men. But he saw no doctors or nurses moving among them. As Benjamin looked at the scene around him, the officer must have noticed, for he put a hand on Benjamin’s shoulder and answered his unspoken question.

  “When we can, we’ll get these men loaded on that train back there and take them to hospitals in Petrograd. If you want to head back the way you came, we should pick up the pace.” They walked quickly on along the curving tracks, past a damaged railway station with the white banner of the Red Cross above the doorway, and finally arrived at the headquarters building not far beyond it.

  Two guards at the entrance came to attention and saluted when the officer approached, and he returned the salute before he and Benjamin went inside. The officer led him through groups of men wearing the insignia of high-ranking officers, occasionally greeting someone he knew, until they came to a door with two more guards standing outside. After several endless minutes of formality and sideways glances, the officer finally led Benjamin into the presence of the Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias: Nicholas II.

  AFTER BENJAMIN entered the room, the door closed firmly behind them. Nicholas sat behind a desk, smoking a cigarette and reading a letter that lay in front of him. He seemed unaware of the presence of the two men. The ticking of a clock on the shelf behind the tsar sounded unusually loud, and Benjamin’s hands, wrapped around the portfolio, were sweating. He could hold onto the portfolio in his palms no longer, and it hit the wooden floor with a loud slap. Nicholas raised his head and set the paper aside.

  “That was one way to get my attention.” Nicholas didn’t sound angry, but genuinely amused. Benjamin and the officer bowed deeply and apologized while the tsar kept on smoking and stroking his beard. Benjamin picked up the portfolio from the floor and handed it over to the tsar, who took it and set it aside. Benjamin stood stiffly at attention in front of Nicholas’s desk while the tsar, with the scratch of a pen, put his signature to another piece of paper; he set the paper aside and looked Benjamin in the eye. The officer bowed, and left Benjamin and the tsar alone.

  “Your father and mother are both well?”

  “Yes, thank you, Your Majesty. My father sends you his greetings. He regrets he was unable to bring these letters from King George himself.” Benjamin pointed to the portfolio lying by Nicholas’s elbow.

  “Ah yes, the war has all of us occupied these days. The Lord sees fit to try us.”

  Nicholas invited Benjamin to sit down. The tsar spoke to Benjamin about his wife Alexandra and his daughters nursing soldiers back in Petrograd, and they spoke about the evacuation of allied troops from Gallipoli, and while they spoke Benjamin noticed that the tsar seemed far away, focusing on a framed photograph on his desk.

  “I have a friend who was wounded at Suvla Bay,” Benjamin said. “He wrote to tell me what an awful mess it was.”

  “The Lord’s will be done.” Nicholas said, hastily crossing himself.

  Benjamin bowed his head and waited until the tsar stood up before rising himself.

  “When are you returning to Petrograd? I’ll have replies ready before you depart,” Nicholas told him.

  “As soon as transportation is available, Your Majesty,” Benjamin said, not relishing the prospect of more days spent in a boxcar. A moment of silence followed while Nicholas II gathered up the portfolio and other papers.

  BENJAMIN HAD seen Nicholas II from a distance many times, but this was his first time in the emperor’s presence. Even in a peaked khaki cap, Nicholas was two inches shorter than Benjamin’s own five foot eleven. Benjamin had heard he was a chain-smoker, and even as he sat chatting with Benjamin, he had the always-present cigarette between his fingers. His voice when he spoke was not the booming bass Benjamin had expected of a ruler, but a soft-spoken baritone that reminded him of a country gentleman rather than the ruler of the vast land called Russia. Nicholas finally put out his cigarette and called in an adjutant to bring refreshments. He invited Benjamin and the officer, Leonid Denisovich, of the tsar’s Infantry Regiments of the 3rd Division, to join him in the sitting room behind his office.

  The tsar lit another cigarette and reminded Benjamin and Leonid that the tsarina was in charge of things in his absence and the most capable ministers and advisors aided her.

  Benjamin thought, I hear Rasputin is holding the reins too… but he had learned enough from his father to know when to keep silent. The tsar sighed and asked Leonid, who had just come from the front, to make a report on what he had experienced.

  “Let’s go for a walk, shall we, gentlemen?” Nicholas rose, and Benjamin and Leonid followed. Once properly attired for outdoors, they stepped outside into the cold. Nicholas told them that he loved his exercise and the outdoors, and the two men were breathless to keep up with his long strides. They stopped to inspect the railway station Benjamin remembered seeing on the road to headquarters.

  The stone platform was slick with snow and mud, which they tracked inside the dim, smoky interior. Three orderlies and some officers standing around the fire in the center of the room came to attention when they recognized the tsar. Nicholas II saluted them and approached the flames with his two companions. Just then, a door on one side of the room flew open and a stout gray-haired doctor walked out, accompanied by a younger man and a nun. The doctor didn’t realize the tsar was in the room until he saw the nun bow deeply.

  “Your Majesty… I apologize.”

  Nicholas nodded and then took one more puff on his cigarette before throwing it into the fire.

  “Come on, Doctor, out with it, what’s on your mind?” the tsar asked him. The doctor cleared his throat.

  “I have a man in the next room, one of your officers with a superficial graze from a bullet. He has a fever, but it’s nothing serious. I recommend sending him to Petrograd for recovery.”

  Nicholas asked permission to see the patient. He accompanied the doctor inside, followed closely by the young intern, the nun, Benjamin, and Leonid. The room was in twilight because they had covered the lamps with gauze and drawn the curtains. The group gathered around the bed, while the tsar bent over to get a closer look at the young man under the blankets.

  “Who is he?” Nicholas inquired of the doctor.

  “His name is Sergei Breselov, Captain of Y
our Majesty’s Horse Guards. The doctor removed the covering over the lamp so His Majesty could see, and Benjamin, who stood to the right of Nicholas, saw the feverish face of a handsome man with curly black hair and a trace of mustache. Sergei seemed to whisper something, and then he lifted his head slightly, opened his eyes, and fixed his gaze on Benjamin.

  “What’s the diagnosis, sir? Will he make it?” Benjamin was surprised to hear his own voice asking the questions aloud, though he didn’t know why.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’ll recover with some rest,” the doctor replied.

  “Will he make it if we send him to Petrograd?” the tsar asked the doctor.

  The doctor paused, seeming to think about what he would say first and then replied, “The wound is only superficial, Your Majesty.”

  The doctor frowned, leaned over the patient, and laid his hand on the man’s forehead. Then the tsar, the doctor, and Leonid drew away into a corner to have a private word. Benjamin didn’t know why at first, but he felt that he had to help get Sergei to a hospital in Petrograd. A knock sounded at the door, and an officer in a muddy overcoat entered and requested permission to speak with the tsar. The group broke up, leaving Benjamin alone with Sergei, who was asleep again. Benjamin reached out and stroked some strands of hair from Sergei’s forehead. He smiled down at him and stood up.

  THE SNOW crunched under Benjamin’s boots as he left the porch and walked down the trail to the railroad yard. The sun slipped behind the clouds, and the sky began spitting down heavy white flakes. Benjamin slipped through a whitewashed wooden gate and onto a platform that ran alongside a long line of railroad cars. Steam was drifting out of the smokestack of the engine, and a portly engineer holding a greasy rag was standing alone looking down the line of cars. Hearing Benjamin’s footsteps, he turned around, lifted his cap, and bowed slightly from the waist.