Noble's Savior

by Jerry Sacher

  “The tsar has abdicated, and there is a provisional government now….”

  “Sure, the war is still going on, God help Russia….”

  Sergei heard these scraps of conversation, until a guard shouted, “Quiet, keep moving, and no talking!”

  Only once did Sergei lift his head during the exercise hour to ask, “Hey, did you forget about me in here?”—only to receive a rifle butt in the ribs for his trouble.

  SERGEI SAT alone in a corner of the dimly lit stone cell, clutching a ragged wool blanket about his shoulders for warmth, when a bright light blinded him. He held up his hand to shield his eyes. A shadow blocked the door, and a harsh voice called out to him.

  “Breselov, you have a visitor. Come along.”

  Sergei stretched out his limbs and walked slowly behind the armed guard. Finally after two flights of stairs, and crossing a yard covered with a mixture of melting snow and mud, they entered another building and stopped at a door that the guard flung open and shoved Sergei inside.

  Two chairs sat in the center of the room. A man whose back was to Sergei occupied one of them. He recognized Petr after a minute of staring into his face, and the guard untied his hands and forced Sergei into the other chair.

  “Hello, Comrade Sergei. How are you?”

  “You can see how I am just by looking at me.”

  “Don’t be bitter. This isn’t my fault.” Petr waved his hands to indicate the prison.

  “Then where should I lay the blame?”

  “I could theorize on that subject at length if you would like to listen. Let’s just start with your relationship with the Englishman. Now I know you’re thinking why that’s my business, and why should you be in prison. Well, frankly because I’m a little jealous, if you want honesty. You never had to hint that you were becoming a little too attached to that young man. I could see it, and I had you followed. Connections, you know,” Petr said smugly, and Sergei sat and listened, his mind a thousand miles away.

  “Aren’t there enough problems in Russia now without your concern for a man’s relationship with a friend? How much longer will I be here?”

  “I can’t tell you how long you’ll be here, but the way things are going, the prisons will be needed to hold more important people, and they may forget what you’re in for and let you go.”

  “What’s going on outside?”

  “Of course you haven’t heard. Nicholas II and his family are under house arrest at Tsarskoe Selo. Lenin has arrived back in Russia, and soon the provisional government will collapse, but that’s only a matter of time.”

  “I heard about the tsar, poor man.” Sergei crossed himself.

  “Talk like that may very well keep you confined here, my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend, Petr. As I have told you before, you only wanted me when you were under the influence of drink. I have nothing more to say to you, so you can leave.”

  Petr stood up and came up close to him. Sergei thought for a moment that his former friend was going to kiss him, but instead he spat in his face and walked out of the room. The guard returned a moment later and took Sergei back to his cell, and once more the iron door clanged shut behind him. He spent the next hour staring in the direction of the one-foot square trap door set in the center of the door waiting for his food to be handed through.

  Sergei wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and leaned back against the stone. He knew nobody could hear him when he started talking to himself.

  “Maybe I’ll never get out of here, and Benjamin will never discover what happened to me.”

  He lowered his head in his hands. When he looked up again the space in the wall that served as a window, which was his only indication of the passage of time, was dark, so he knew it must be night.

  “What day and what month is it?” Sergei began pacing the cold stone floor. He even asked the hand that passed the food through the hole in the door, but he received no response, and the little door slid shut again.

  Petrograd, Russia

  October 1917

  SERGEI HAD been sitting alone in the dark, as the naked bulb in his cell had burned out a month earlier, so when the door opened, he had to shield his eyes from the light.

  A shadow suddenly blocked the doorframe and spoke. “Comrade Breselov, you are to come with me!”

  Sergei stood on unsteady feet. It had been weeks since he’d had proper exercise and his legs were stiff, but the guard who came for him didn’t stop to consider his comfort.

  “Follow me,” the guard repeated again and again like a skipping record.

  “Where are we going?” Sergei asked, knowing that he would get the same response, and sure enough the man just told him to follow, so Sergei asked nothing else.

  Their footsteps echoed on the tiled floors, which felt endless to Sergei. Then another man stepped outside a door and ushered Sergei inside. When the door closed behind him, and his eyes adjusted further to the light, he discovered a man sitting with his back to Sergei.

  “I have another visitor?” Sergei asked the guard, who didn’t answer him right away. He indicated an empty seat in front of the visitor.

  “Petr, you’re back to see me?”

  “Hello again, Sergei.” Petr smiled.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Sergei said to him.

  “I asked to see you, Sergei. You see, I’m a prisoner here myself.” Petr watched Sergei’s face to see his reaction. “Well? You have no reaction?”

  “How did it happen, Petr?” was all Sergei managed to say. The rare contact he had with other prisoners and even the guards willing to speak, informed him that strikes and riots were continuing, and the new government was struggling to maintain control of the situation while at the same time continuing to fight the war.

  “It was a strike to support the tram workers. There was a fight, and I ended up here. Maybe they’ll put us in the same cell?” Petr looked hopefully at the guard who was standing nearby, but the man ignored him.

  “Sounds a little more serious than a common street fight, but I can’t understand why they called for me, and why I’m still here.” Sergei noticed Petr looked down at the floor and slowly back up at him.

  “I asked to see you, but as to why you’re still here, I don’t know.”

  “Why did you send for me? I can’t help myself, much less help you.”

  Petr looked around pleadingly at the two guards in the room, and not knowing what they would say, asked, “May I have a minute or two alone… please?”

  The two men standing watch exchanged glances, hesitated a moment, then left the room, but Sergei could tell by the shadows in the frosted glass that one of them was listening at the keyhole.

  “What do you have to say? Make it quick,” Sergei said curtly.

  “I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you mean, but I thought maybe we could escape together.”

  Petr whispered the last two words. Sergei had to keep himself from laughing out loud. “Are you serious? What brought this on, Petr?”

  “We could go to your friend in England and start over.”

  Sergei couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Petr, revolutionary Petr, who was so eager to protest and fight, wanted to leave Russia and go west. “So you can spread the revolution abroad, I suppose?”

  “No, I thought we could go away and be together. How about France? We could join the Army.”

  Sergei remained silent. What had caused his friend to have a complete change of attitude? Was it some kind of test to see if he could get Sergei to agree to leave Russia, and then betray him to whoever was in power?

  “No, if you go, you must go alone. What have you done to make such a choice?”

  Petr was silent, and hearing the door behind him creak open, he said to Sergei, “Think about it.”

  “Time’s up, you, back to your cell, and you, follow me,” the guard said first to Sergei and then to Petr.

  Sergei turned, looked at his friend, and then the door closed behind h
im.

  Back in his cell, Sergei thought about what Petr had told him. Unless it was some kind of trap, why would a man who was such a rabid revolutionary want to flee the country?

  “What in God’s name is going on outside?” Sergei asked out loud.

  He remained alone in the dark.

  Chapter 19

  Passchendaele, Belgium

  Mid-October 1917

  BENJAMIN HEARD a prolonged whistle before the shell burst, just in time to shield his patient from the fine dust of plaster dislodged by the explosion. Through his bandages, the young man smiled at him weakly and tried to say something that might have been “thank you,” only it was lost in another, closer explosion. Benjamin tensed and prayed that the window wouldn’t shatter. It didn’t.

  “Good Lord, that was close. Thank God the Jerries have bad aim,” a short colonel said as he came though the hospital ward, his heavy boots clomping across the old floorboards.

  Benjamin stood, came to attention, and saluted. The colonel returned his salute and glanced around the room. He watched Benjamin while he changed the dressing on another soldier with a stomach wound. Benjamin was aware he was staring, but he continued to focus on the patient lying on the bed in front of him. He sensed that the colonel wanted to engage him in conversation. Benjamin looked briefly in his direction and smiled, picking up the thread of the colonel’s statement when he walked in.

  “After this show, this unit will be overflowing with casualties, so Jerry’s aim is accurate enough. Even in this damnable weather.”

  Benjamin noted another shell bursting, lighting the room brightly for a second and then leaving it dark again. An orderly came in, saluted his superiors, and began lighting lamps. Heavy rain began to fall and the water ran in brown rivulets down the cracked, mud-caked windows, lit up occasionally by the exploding guns from both sides. The orderly finished his task and left Benjamin and the colonel alone in the ward, except of course for the cots of wounded men. The colonel sat near Benjamin on an empty bed.

  “The Germans are throwing in everything they’ve got,” the colonel said.

  “Our boys are giving it right back, sir. We’ll drive them back.”

  “At what cost?” Benjamin heard the colonel mutter, before he said to Benjamin, “This weather is abominable. It must make your job difficult, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Some of these poor men wait outside under canvas for hours before we can get to them,” Benjamin noted sadly.

  Thinking about it only reminded him of Russia and the day he’d arrived at the tsar’s headquarters. He’d seen injured men lying in the snow begging for help, and he could do nothing to help them. Benjamin would always attribute becoming a medical corpsman to that day. That day made him think of seeing Sergei for the first time, lying sick with fever in a converted railway station.

  He shook his head; he didn’t want to think of Sergei, even though Sergei was never far from his thoughts.

  Distant, booming thunder distracted him—but it wasn’t thunder, unfortunately. Benjamin shook his head. The colonel rose from the bed and placed a hand on Benjamin’s shoulder.

  “Not to sound condescending, but I’m sure you’re doing everything you can for them.” He looked deep into Benjamin’s eyes.

  “You look like you could use some rest… Major…?”

  “Major Benjamin Carter, sir. I’m fine, sir, truly. Besides, we’re short-staffed. There’s only two doctors and myself to care for all these men.”

  Benjamin realized he was rambling on from sheer fatigue. The colonel nodded, pressing Benjamin into a chair and at the same time calling for an orderly who was standing just outside the door. “Bring some coffee, and be quick!”

  The orderly saluted and nearly stumbled running across the tiled floor. When they were alone again, Benjamin looked up into the face of the colonel. Something about his face was familiar to Benjamin, but he couldn’t remember what. He studied the man closely, trying to remember. There was no denying the man was very handsome, much older than himself, and Benjamin could detect black curly hair underneath the stiff officer’s cap he wore. A small spot of lather was on his smooth face, which made Benjamin smile for some reason—he didn’t mention it to the colonel, though.

  The colonel grabbed a chair and set it next to Benjamin’s. “The name’s Dyson. Colonel Edward Dyson. Are you by any chance related to Simon Carter, the former diplomat to the Russian tsar?”

  Benjamin replied that he was, and Colonel Dyson continued.

  “I met your father last month at the War Office, and he spoke very highly of you.”

  Benjamin nodded and was going to reply when another shell burst interrupted, followed by the return of the orderly with a white ceramic mug with faint brown stains run through with many cracks. The orderly left, and when they were alone, Edward Dyson reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver flask. Benjamin could smell the brandy as it poured into the mug.

  “Just what the doctor, or rather the colonel, ordered.” He laughed heartily, handing the mug to Benjamin. The coffee was hot and the brandy was strong, but it tasted good, and Benjamin felt better.

  “Thanks… so, you met my father?”

  “Yes, we spoke briefly. He looked well, very busy, though,” Colonel Dyson observed, and he raised his flask of brandy to Benjamin and took a swig.

  Benjamin continued staring at Colonel Edward Dyson over the rim of the coffee mug. He was trying to remember where he had met the colonel before. Meanwhile, the conversation between them covered Benjamin’s parents, the war, and the rumblings from Russia. Benjamin gave Colonel Dyson a firsthand account of his experiences with the revolution. Deep down, Benjamin felt homesick for Russia, and especially he missed Sergei. He’d heard nothing from him since the day they said good-bye on the embankment—no letters or even a telegram to let him know he was okay.

  It was thinking about Sergei that had kept him occupied on the voyage; not even the threat of U-boats or rough seas could disturb him because Sergei was on his mind. It hurt to have Sergei completely cut him off without even an explanation.

  The sound of Colonel Dyson clearing his throat roused Benjamin out of himself. “I’m sorry, Colonel Dyson, I was thinking about something else for a second.” Benjamin laughed nervously and took another sip from the alcohol-laced coffee. He slowly became aware of the fact that the chill in the hospital ward was warming up. He found himself apologizing again, and the drink gave Benjamin the courage to ask the colonel the one question that had been nagging him.

  “Colonel, may I ask you something?”

  Colonel Dyson nodded, taking a long sip from his flask, and then he returned it to his pocket.

  Meanwhile, Benjamin sought the right words, but finding none he asked the man outright. “You look familiar to me—where have we met before?”

  “I’m not surprised you don’t remember, since we only met briefly. It was outside the Scotland Yard recruiting office.” Edward Dyson grinned, reached out, and put his hand quickly on Benjamin’s knee and then withdrew it quickly.

  The memory of their short encounter came flooding back to Benjamin. Is that what Colonel Dyson wants now? Another quick encounter?

  As if Colonel Dyson was reading his mind, he said quietly to Benjamin, “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not true. I’ve been thinking about you since that day, and I let you leave without finding out your name. Then I was at the War Office on official business and ended up in the office of your father. Did you know that he has a photograph of you on his desk? I recognized you and found out where you were.”

  “I don’t know if I’m happy to see you or angry that you used me and put me on the street without so much as a cup of tea.”

  Colonel Dyson was going to speak up in his defense when yet another heavy shell burst, shaking the building to its foundations. Benjamin scrambled to his feet to protect one of the wounded men from falling chunks of plaster. He stood up, pieces falling from his back onto the tile floor.

  “I was h
oping that I might make it up to you, Major Carter, by letting me take you out to dine when you have free time.”

  “Since you’ve gone through a lot of trouble to find me, Colonel Dyson, I ought to accept your invitation, but there’s a war on. Who has any free time?”

  “Perhaps I can arrange it… pull some strings, as it were….” Colonel Dyson smiled mischievously.

  He reminded Benjamin of a little boy who was up to no good. Benjamin sighed. “I don’t want you to do that, Colonel. There’s too much for me to do around here, and as I have told you before, we’re short-staffed.”

  “You don’t know me very well, Benjamin Carter.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t know me, either, Colonel Dyson,” Benjamin replied, moving away from the colonel for the first time.

  “There’s no pressure, but there’s a small hotel in the village, and they have a fine little dining room. Just a small dinner between old friends, what do you say?”

  Benjamin looked past the colonel’s shoulder at the driving rain, bursting shells, and waist-deep mud, yet he saw Sergei’s phantom standing just outside the water-soaked glass.

  “Dinner anywhere outside the hospital canteen sounds like heaven….”

  “But, you’re going to refuse me, aren’t you?”

  Benjamin couldn’t believe he saw the colonel’s mouth turn down at the corners. “I’m not ready to give you any yes or no answer, Colonel.”

  Benjamin set the cup down next to him and placed his palms flat on his knees.