The Rift

by H Schmidt

  This evening, he paused to look and listen. As he stood, he could hear firing from somewhere near the business district. The same every night, often from the center of Petrograd. He watched for movement. Glancing to his left, he thought he saw the red glow of burning tobacco, then it was gone. It was a pleasant evening, he thought, a breeze cooling the night air. The streets glistened from the rain. As he stepped off the sidewalk, he could hear the faint echo of his boots against the cobblestone street. He filled his lungs with the air that had been washed by the rain. It had been a long day. It was good to be walking after spending the evening hours at his desk.

  ---

  For almost a month, Boris Edmundovich had followed William Housman. Each day he would travel to the mansion to report to Fedor Riezler or one of the Jew’s lieutenants. The young Latvian hated Jews, but he hated the czar and his nobles more. He hated the men who grew rich from the war. Boris had fought with the First Army at Stalluponen and had joined in the retreat back into Russia. In that battle, the young Latvian had seen men slaughtered for the first time and looked for his chance to break away. In Galicia, he had seen other units surrender to the Austrians and Germans, escaping the likelihood of death. He had waited for an opportunity to surrender. The commander of his infantry company was the son of a count from the Caucasus who demanded that his men fight, that anyone attempting to run or surrender would be shot. He had watched Captain Witte personally shoot three men while he forced the men to watch.

  What had occurred to men like Boris, they were going to be killed or die of wounds or dysentery unless they found a way to escape. Many of the men had read the leaflets that the Bolsheviks had smuggled into the frontline units. Men would gather around the few men among them that could read and nod their heads. The leaflets confirmed what Boris already knew, that the war was being fought for the czar, the nobles, the bankers, and the factory owners. The men like Boris were merely fodder for the German and Austrian cannons and machine guns. His chance came when his unit had been attacked by the Austrians and the retreat had turned into a rout. He had simply kept on running until he was free of the front lines. That was six months ago. As he traveled through the countryside, often robbing peasants of their food and whatever valuables they possessed, he ran into bands of men like him, men who now preyed on the peasants to live. One of the bands told him they were headed for Petrograd, where their chances of obtaining money and food were much greater than in the countryside.

  When Boris arrived in Petrograd, he found hundreds of men roaming the streets. Some were starving, others barely subsisting. Fortune smiled on Boris the day he listened to a young man calling on the workers and soldiers to join the Bolsheviks, to throw out the czar and distribute the wealth of the rich to the people. Boris decided that he knew enough to persuade the Bolsheviks that he could be one of them. Fedor Riezler had looked at the Latvian and decided he might be useful. The first job he gave to the young man, who was not a big man, but quick and strong, was to beat an old shopkeeper who had heckled Riezler while he was speaking to a crowd in the business district. Riezler was pleased when he learned that the man had died from the beating.

  Riezler decided the next job was one which would test the young Latvian. He would follow William Housman, and let him know where he had been. Boris had done a commendable job. He had found out, for example, that the American spoke fluent Russian and often stood on the edge of crowds listening to speeches. He seemed to collect every piece of the Party literature he could find and all the Petrograd newspapers. Riezler had observed that Housman seemed to increase his time on the streets before the march on Taurida Palace. Many of Riezler’s associates had dismissed Riezler’s preoccupation with the young American. Why doesn’t he rely on informants and spies to do such work, they would say? What sort of counterrevolutionary spends his time collecting leaflets and newspapers? A clerk could do that.

  But Riezler saw something the others didn’t. While most foreigners and the counterrevolutionaries in the Provisional Government talked among themselves, creating predictions of enemy actions based on what they wanted to believe, this young man, alone, ventured out onto the street to look and listen for himself. He understood now why Victor had said he was dangerous. Sometimes, Riezler had been greatly tempted to talk to the American. Such men are worthy opponents, not fools like most who rely on others to do their work. A young man who had learned to speak Russian, who knew Russian history, was a most dangerous enemy. He wondered, now, did this American have anything to do with Pereverzev’s treachery? By good fortune, Lenin had been saved. But he could take no more chances.

  The Latvian stood before him without expression. The hooded eyes told Riezler nothing. Such a quality can be helpful in dealing with your enemy. It was not helpful to him now.

  “Boris Edmundovich, you have been watching the American for almost a month. It is time to do more.”

  ---

  It was almost two kilometers from the embassy to his apartment building. The street ran parallel to the Neva. As he walked through the cross streets, he could see the lights along the river. Where the ground rose from the river, he could see the strips of light from the street lamps reach out into the river. It had been a full day, and he felt his body wind down, his muscles relax.

  He heard the quick steps of the hard-soled boots, then the explosion in his head as the hickory club raked the left side of his face and bounced off his shoulder. Boris had aimed for the center of the head, but the American had sensed danger and turned to face this charge.

  Riezler had told him to hurt him badly. He had told him he did not want to kill him. He had remembered the face of the shopkeeper when he attacked him, the anger turn to fear as Boris had beaten and kicked him. The blood running from his nose and mouth, the broken limbs, the screams of pain, excited Boris. Riezler had not told him to kill the shopkeeper either, but Boris did not want to stop. He could not stop.

  The first blow knocked Billy to the ground. Trained to defend himself, he rolled to his right, feeling the warmth of his blood cover the side of his face as he did. He could not feel his left arm. He wondered if his shoulder had been broken. The second blow of the heavy stick landed solidly on the back of his left leg, sending shooting pains up and down. Sensing his attacker expected him to continue to roll away, he bounded to his feet and saw his tormentor. The smaller man raised the stick again and Billy charged into his chest, bringing his head up under the chin, hearing teeth break as he did, feeling his own scalp split. Disoriented, Boris Edmundovich staggered against the wall of the house next to the alley where he had hidden. Gaining his balance, he came at Billy again, his faced twisted with rage and hate.

  Billy’s mind had cleared enough to pull the Browning out of its holster. As the pistol cleared, his eyes were on the piece of hickory. Boris, out of control, wanted to crush the skull of the American. His mistake was to swing the stick at Billy’s head in an arch almost parallel to the ground. As he brought the stick around in its long, powerful arch, Billy ducked under it and brought the barrel of the automatic down across the eyes and nose of the Latvian. Boris felt the explosion inside of his head as the skin was torn away and the cartilage in his nose crushed. A second blow was aimed directly into the face, crushing the bones, forcing him back into the wall. He felt the impact of his body hitting the brick wall. In front of him, the American seemed to fade in then out, and the world drifted away. Billy watched the eyes in the crushed face blink, go blank, then retreat as the lids dropped to cover them. The arms dropped to the sides of the man he did not know, the hickory stick making a loud clatter as it bounced on the sidewalk, the noise running up and down the empty street. Then the bones seem to leave the body, the knees unlocked and the body flowed into the pavement. The shapeless and bloodied face rested on its chest. Then silence.

  Billy was standing, his right hand shaking, the barrel of his automatic bouncing as it did. He talked to himself, working through the possibilities. “My collarbone is broken, I would bet on it. Where did
he come from?” He looked around and decided he had been in the alley. I was too careless. I should have checked that alley before I walked past it. Robbery? No. He was trying to kill me. The look in his eyes. Hate? No. They were cold. He was doing a job. He stopped, not thinking about possibilities but certainties. “Riezler.”

  He took a deep breath, his hand barely steady enough to holster his automatic. He could see the dark stains on his white cotton suit and feel the blood begin to thicken on his face and the back of his head. The numbness in his left arm was less, but the broken collarbone began to throb. The street seemed to wave as he looked across it. How far was he from the flat? No more than five minutes. If he could make it to the flat, he could clean himself up. He felt sick.

  Billy did not see the lights go on two doorways down from where he stood. Nicholas Voravskii had heard the noise outside, the shouts and cries of men fighting to the death. Nicholas had been an officer with Samsanov at Mukden.

  He heard the sounds again of the hand-to-hand combat between Russian and Japanese soldiers. Although his left arm was withered from a saber wound that cut all the nerves and tendons in his arm, he felt ashamed that he had kept his door locked.

  No more than thirty seconds had passed from the time he had heard the first sharp cry of pain until it was quiet again. He listened at the door then slowly opened it, his hand on the knob, ready to slam it shut. He could see a man leaning against a lamp post. The bloodied left side of his face was nearest to him. The knees sagged on the tall man, the right arm which supported him against the post seemed to be collapsing at the elbow.

  “What is it, Uncle?” Nicholas heard his niece coming down the stairs. He looked again at the wounded man and quickly opened the door and rushed to keep him from falling.

  ---

  Sir Gustav and Sir Rupert sat on the portico above the doorway closest to the spot where the Latvian lay unconscious.

  “Quite a fighter, Sir Rupert. The boy can take care of himself.”

  “A bit careless, don’t you think? In our day, he would have died a squire. Handsome lad, though. Looks like one of the Lettic people, don’t you think? Black hair, black eyes. Little Willie doesn’t look like one of yours at all.”

  “He’s not so little. You could have stood on your toes and never reached his armpit. I will grant the both of them do seem to choose harm’s way a great deal. Maybe we’d better check on the other one. He’s in Berlin, you know.”

  Sir Rupert was trying to remember. “That was west of the castle several days’ ride. A little village, mostly a bunch of savages lived there.”

  “That was five hundred years ago, Rupert. The part about the village, I mean.” “You’re trying to be funny, right?”

  As they walked toward the Neva, Sir Gustav thought of the two boys. His heart ached when he thought of the two brothers apart for so long. He found the gift of observation granted him to be a painful one many times. He could observe what was happening but he was not allowed to see into the future. He wished he could tell Little Willie that Friederich was in Berlin, that his mother and sister were at Marburg. He had one wish, that the family come together again. “I hope so, too.” Sir Rupert said.

  “Please stay out of my private thoughts, you old scoundrel.” He looked gratefully at the powerful knight beside him. How many friendships last five hundred years, he thought.

  “Not many, Sir Gustav.”

  Chapter Two

  They ignored his protests that he was alright and carried him into the house, then upstairs to the guest room. Clean sheets had been spread on the bed. Carefully removing his coat, his pistol and holster, then his shirt, they gently laid him on the bed. Billy winced as his shoulder came to rest on the pillows.

  Elizaveta was surprised to see the man to whom she had handed the package less than forty-eight hours ago. Remembering her anger then at his treating her like a simpleton, she began cleaning the congealing blood from the face and the back of his head.

  “Sarena, bring some ice. We will need to keep the swelling down on the shoulder.” She looked at her uncle, who admired his niece’s calm and competence. He anticipated her question. “Dr. Karamazov is on his way. I told him what happened.”

  As she cleaned away the blood from the lieutenant’s face, she could see two gashes above the eye and on the cheekbone where the stick had grazed the side of his head. They still bled, slowly now. The gash in the back of the head was not so severe; the black hair still thickly matted with blood from the wound.

  Billy could feel the cool hands on his face, sensing the surprising strength of her hands. He could smell her hair as it brushed close to his face. At first, his head still spinning, he imagined it was the girl who had handed him the packet from Carson. Now he was sure it was her. Despite the circumstances, he was happy to see her; to have a chance to tell her he regretted his rudeness. He tried to work around his body in his mind to find out where he was hurt and how badly. The throbbing in his collarbone told him it was probably broken. He could feel the knot on his leg, and sense the swelling in his head. The wounds in his head pulsed, and he knew his left eye was closing. “I anhnn...” It was no use. He felt his lips had swollen so that he could not speak clearly. He gestured to Elizaveta for a pencil and a piece of paper. One of the servant girls, who had not taken her eyes off the naked chest and torso of the man they had carried in, rushed away to find something to write with.

  Wincing with pain as he moved, he wrote a note for Elizaveta. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior but I didn’t think I could find you. Thank you for helping me.”

  He searched her eyes as she read the note. The eyes, which had shown little expression while she worked over him, did not change.

  “I understand. The doctor will be here soon.” Elizaveta, unlike many of her girlfriends, did not care for the many young Americans in Petrograd. He remembered her father remarking how he regretted so many German and French businessmen and diplomats in Russia before the war.

  He would have worried about the numbers of Americans, today. She thought the Americans she met, including the diplomats, to be rude and self-centered. She had heard different things about the lieutenant, and perhaps her hurt and anger were because she expected more.

  Doctor Karamazov and an assistant were standing next to her now, looking down on the young man. He spoke to Elizaveta.

  “How did this happen? Was he drinking?”

  Billy could only shake his head no. It was the count who spoke.

  “He was attacked. The man who attacked him is lying outside. He is worse off than this man.”

  Billy rejected the idea of ether and asked for a cup of brandy, instead. The count and Elizaveta watched as they cleaned the wounds and stitched them. Elizaveta suppressed her desire to wince each time the needle passed through the skin. She watched as the two men first pulled the collarbone apart then eased it back together. She could see the pain in the lieutenant’s eyes. He did not cry out. “I would have been proud to have a soldier like you in my unit, Lieutenant.

  You would make a fine Cossack.”

  Billy could only acknowledge the compliment with his eyes. He knew the pain was minor compared to what it would be in an hour. Doctor Karamazov placed a bottle of laudanum in Elizaveta’s hand.

  “If he seems in too much pain, give him a tablespoon of this. Don’t offer it to him if he doesn’t seem in too much pain.”

  Nicholas Voravskii worried about his niece. Russia was not a good place for a young girl. But she was as strong as her father, and determined to fight. They were outside of the room now. “He is not like the other Americans, do you think?”

  Elizaveta smiled at her Uncle. He was always so transparent.

  ---

  He was a small boy again. Adiru was running in front of him. He was trying mightily to keep up. He was shouting his name and the tall man was smiling at him. His dream changed to a field of tall grass. Animals were grazing near where he was tied to a tree. He could see the tops of the heads of the quic
k warriors, then they would disappear and he would see them again. Suddenly, the great animals with their curved horns and shaggy manes stampeded past where he was tied. There were shouts and screams. There was a fire and he was running around it. Everything was dark outside the ring of the firelight. There were three other children playing. As they played, a young woman, with dark hair and black eyes came out of the darkness toward the fire.

  ---

  “Theresa?” It was dark. He could hear nothing outside the windows. The pain from his shoulder made his head swim. He could feel his eye swollen shut. At the doorway, Elizaveta stood watching, then walked to the side of the bed. She carried a glass of water.

  “Can you hold the glass?” He nodded and she handed it carefully to him. She could see the pain in his eyes, even in the dark. “Dr. Karamazov left something for your pain.”

  She knew he would not ask. She reached the spoon to his mouth and patiently allowed him to sip the laudanum from it. Was it a tear she saw in his eye? Perhaps the pain.

  ---

  Alexander Feodorovich Kerensky was feeling good this morning. He had announced to the Duma that the elections for the Constituent Assembly would be held November 9 and the new government would be sworn in on November

  28. He fully expected that he would be the new head of Russia on November 28, that the world would look upon him as the first head of the new democratic Russia.

  To steer the revolution on the course to the new Russia, there would be a state conference in Moscow in four days. There, the committees would be selected and the machinery begun to hold the elections, to prepare for his coronation. He thought of the last two and one half months, the peaks and valleys. He remembered the hopes for Russian victory in early June, bitter disappointment as his armies were routed. Oh, how the Bolsheviks fell upon him and the Provisional Government. Silent as the armies began the offensive, they leaped like hyenas upon the government, crying for withdrawal from the war, a separate peace with Germany.