by H Schmidt
Riezler stood, this time his face was like stone. He wished he could kill this man.
“Please, Comrade. Sit. I want you to see something.”
Now Riezler understood. He moved quickly around the table and grabbed at the man’s wrist. It was too late. The American swallowed the small packet. The guards rushed in to restrain their comrade, who was beating the dying man with his fists. As they pulled him away, still screaming, the white spittle flecks flying from his mouth, the body of Richard Carson stiffened then relaxed.
The physician who had been present during the torture uttered one word aloud to those who stood above the dead man. “Cyanide.”
Chapter Four
“I’ll be traveling south to find Yuri. The rumor is that he has an army.”
Billy was looking at Elizaveta, who was hiding with a friend in the house of one of the old bureaucrats who had been left alone when the Bolsheviks had come to power. The two had taken a chance and strolled down one of the side streets, which was empty so late at night.
“I had doubted that at first, now I’m not so sure. He has the Bolsheviks furious at what he was able to do.”
“What has he done?”
“He robbed the train carrying money to be transferred to the State bank in Moscow.” He was smiling as he spoke.
“I will be on my way south to find him.”
He looked at the frail girl beside him. He was worried about Elizaveta. Just the week before, they had taken her uncle. She could not even attempt to see him because they were looking for her.
“Your uncle is dead.” He had to tell her, to warn her. “What happened?”
“Riezler. Somehow, he was able to recruit some of Dzerzhinskii’s people to take Richard into custody. He was tortured.”
Billy knew he had to tell her everything. “When we found out, we were able to get a cyanide capsule to him.”
Elizaveta began to walk faster, wanting to get away. Away from what she was hearing.
“I’m sorry, Elizaveta. We didn’t have a choice. Richard knew too much.” He wanted her to understand. “When he was given the capsule, he thanked the one who gave it to him. Elizaveta, I want you to think about something. I don’t need an answer at this moment but I want you to consider something. I want you to consider leaving Russia.” Before she could answer, he spoke again. “Don’t say yes or no. Just think about it, OK?”
---
“I really like that girl, Sir Gustav. How about you?”
“I worry about little Willie around her. He could get himself in a lot of trouble trying to protect her.”
“Very pretty, too. It would certainly improve the looks of the Mecklenburgs.” “You’re trying to get me going, aren’t you? Well, I do agree she’s a very handsome lady, intelligent, she probably would be good for Willie.”
“You know, we should be checking on Friederich. That boy has a way of following trouble.”
“How far do you think he is from Petrograd? Do you think they will ever meet, Sir Rupert?”
---
Feliks Edmundovich Dzerzhinskii had heard enough. Fedor Riezler must go. He had listened to the report of the physician describing Riezler’s behavior when Richard Carson had committed suicide. Trying to beat a man who was dying was made worse by his carelessness in allowing the man to obtain poison. He remembered how impressed he had been with Riezler when he watched him before crowds, tracking down enemies and questioning them. Both Poles, they shared a hatred of Russians. But something had happened to Riezler. There was talk that he had gone mad when his mistress betrayed him, helping Carson and the American Housman break into Kerensky’s office.
---
When he left Comrade Dzerzhinskii’s office, he was in a rage. How could they send him to Warsaw?! What had he done to take him away from Lenin and the Revolution? He had walked the streets of Petrograd for hours, cursing the Party, cursing Dzerzhinskii, cursing Anna. Why? I loved her! Why would she betray me? When he thought of her warm body beside him, he would whimper in self-pity, ignoring the curious looks of people on the streets. When he thought of what she had done, he would talk angrily to himself, shouting her name, cursing her. Walking down the bank of the Neva, he walked onto the frozen river, until he stood alone, looking at the soft lights of the city. From where he stood, he could see the lights of the university, and remember the exciting times when he first learned of his power over people.
The cold night air began to calm him. He felt in control now. He had to find Anna. She was the reason for his torment. If he could find her, it would make him better. The Party would want him to stay in Petrograd. He was good at finding people. He knew she was still in Petrograd. She would never leave the city.
---
Anna did not know how she got to the university. She had wandered through the city looking for Fedor. Fedor would take her back. She knew that. He had told her he loved her. She was hungry. She had not eaten since last evening. This morning the family that Carson had arranged for her to stay with had asked her to leave. She thought of the lieutenant. Where did he live? Had he ever told her? There was no one on the streets of the university. She could see lights in an occasional window. Most of the rooms were dark. Perhaps if she walked across the river, she would remember where the lieutenant lived. He would take care of her. She turned away from the river. Fedor. She knew where his flat was. It was close by. She would go there. Fedor would forgive her.
---
His mind was clear now. He felt better. The morning sun’s rays rimmed the buildings across the river. The air was still bitter cold. It would be good to get inside and heat himself a pot of tea. He was hungry. Perhaps there was some bread left. He tried to remember when he had eaten last. His room was on the third floor. He could see the building’s front door as he looked down the street. None of the entrance ways on his narrow street had outside stairs. A single step brought you to the door. He saw the figure of someone sitting next to the doorway, slumped against the brick wall, their head buried between their knees. A dusting of snow covered the figure. He knew that many people were without food in this rich country, and the thought made him angry. Why do we allow people to die for lack of food in a country with so much land? Lately, he had seen militia walk the streets in the early morning beside wagons, picking up frozen bodies. The Health Committee kept the streets clean to prevent epidemics.
He was now no more than ten meters from the door and the huddled figure when he stopped. His hand reached out to grab the lamppost. He felt his whole body shaking. He could not stop it. Perhaps she is alive. He rushed to her, then grabbed his keys from his pocket. Opening the door, he rushed back to pick her up. She was so light. Scrambling up the stairs, he laid her on his unmade bed and quickly closed the door. Heat. He needed to warm the room. Good, the red embers still glowed in the bed of the stove. He filled the stove with coal, opening the damper and blowing on the glowing embers.
Returning to his Anna, he gently removed her woolen hat.
“What have they done to you, dearest Anna? You are so thin?”
Pulling off her gloves, he began to rub her hands. They were cold, made colder by the absence of warm blood from her heart which had stopped beating only moments before. He continued to rub her hands.
“Anna, I am sorry. You know how much I love you, dearest Anna. Things will be better now, I promise. I will never ask you to do anything you do not want to do.”
On the floor above, and the flat next to Riezler’s, they could hear the wailing of the strange man. They had often heard him yelling and screaming in anger. They wondered if someone else was there. It lasted most of the day.
---
Billy had come south along the rail line where the robbery had occurred. He had worn one of the wigs Carson had given him. He wore a peasant’s fur hat pulled down over his ears, a sheepskin coat, and heavy army boots. He carried a sack on his back, which he kept with him on the train ride to the south. The open boxcar was full. Soldiers, men whose eyes darted about them,
others whose eyes showed purpose, families full of hope, others who seemed lost.
The owner of the stable knew he was coming. He told Billy that it had taken two days to find the kind of horse the man who had contacted him said he wanted. Billy looked at the mare. She was old, but in reasonably good shape.
He wondered what the stable owner was paid for the horse. He had heard of stories of the Old Man’s operatives paying ridiculously high prices for what they wanted.
Although such men as the stable owner didn’t know where the money was coming from, he was aware that there was a great deal of money being spent in Russia, often by people whom he guessed were trying to rid Russia of the Soviet government. The owner had no interest in politics, but was happy to receive the benefits of Russians fighting Russians. His only concern was that the price of everything was getting out of hand. Next time, he would ask twice the price for such an animal.
Billy had followed the Moscow River until he saw the small village. He had been riding for two days and knew Yuri was nearby. The village seemed to run right into the river. Small fishing boats were parked on the banks of the river. It was late in the afternoon, and the men most likely were preparing their catch or working in the fields behind the village. As he rode down the main street, clean with last night’s brushing of snow, he could see he was being watched. He had unbuttoned his heavy sheepskin coat at the waist, to allow him to pull his Colt pistol out quickly. Although the chestnut mare had proved sturdier than he thought, her speed offered little chance of escape if he were attacked.
He was told to go to the last house in the village, which had a large corral and barn attached to the unpainted house. Why does no one paint anything in the village, he thought. As he pulled up, he was greeted by a smiling young man, who looked more like gentry than a peasant. Like Billy, he wore the clothes of a peasant, but the proud way he walked and held his head betrayed him. He had taken off his hat as he approached, displaying a head of thick, red hair.
“It is Billy, is it not?” For a moment, surprised showed on Billy’s face. Then he smiled. They had been waiting for him.
“Yes, and your name, sir?”
“Boris Noskolnikov at your service.” Billy looked at this handsome young man, saddened that the likelihood that he would live out the year was not very good. The young Cossack had noticed the change in mood. He did not inquire as to why. “Come. There is someone who would like to see you.”
The sun was a red ball now touching the horizon when Billy entered the house. Inside, in the large room, several men waited, great smiles on their faces welcoming the visitor. In the front of the men, looking greatly pleased, stood Yuri.
“The great army of the czar welcomes you. And I welcome you, my friend.” With that Yuri stepped forward, and with the cheers of his men in the background, he lifted Billy up in a great bear hug and spun him around.
“Yuri, you are a sight for sore eyes. It is common knowledge in Petrograd that I am in the presence of the richest army in Russia.”
Still intoxicated with their coup, the men in the room let out a loud cheer. “Even the Bolsheviks cannot keep news of such daring and courage away from the people.” Yuri shouted.
Yuri turned serious. “We received word that they know where we are. No matter, tomorrow we will be riding north. We can talk about that later. Tonight, we have prepared a feast in your honor, Billy. In the next room, we have prepared a tub of hot water for you. We know you have been traveling for four days. We will give you a chance to remove the stink of Petrograd and Moscow.”
---
Billy’s head ached. While his friends moved about in high spirits, his head throbbed from the vodka that flowed the night before. Grabbing a handful of powdery snow, he rubbed it on his forehead. He felt better. Since his arrival in Russia a year ago, Billy had perfected the ways to avoid keeping pace with Russians in drinking vodka. Last night, seeing his friend, he could not resist. This morning, as the clouds played hide-and-seek with the sun, he paid the price. Still, it was a small price for friendship. Last night, the terrible struggle had been forgotten and soldiers basked in their memories of good times.
As he watched the men pack their horses for the journey north, Yuri came to sit down beside Billy. “Most of these men have never killed anyone or seen their comrades die, have they?” Billy asked.
“No, most are young. Many come from titled families, families who owe the czar. They believe like I do.”
“Yuri, many in Russia think you mad. Alekseev, Kornilov, Denikin see a world where the czar remains only as a symbol of Russia, a ceremonial ruler. Most who oppose the Bolsheviks see things the same way, or would rid Russia of the czar altogether.”
“I cannot abandon the czar, Billy. My family has sworn to defend him and I will do that.”
“You are almost alone, you know. It would take a strong man to stand up today in Petrograd or Moscow and shout ‘Long Live the Czar’. Likely, he would be killed on the spot.”
“I must keep trying. Let us not talk so seriously, Billy. Today, we ride to Yaroslavl. Will you ride with us?”
“The Volunteer Army is not your friend, Yuri.”
“We have a hundred men, Billy. We cannot do it alone. Today, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Billy’s instructions were to make contact with Denikin. The head of the Volunteer Army had made his case to the Allies. Desperate to keep Russia out of German hands, and to throw out the Bolsheviks, they let it be known they were ready to pour money into armies that would fight the Bolsheviks and stay in the war. Whether a charlatan or a patriot, Denikin would not suffer for Allied support. Billy’s job was to make sure he was aware of the American interest and its willingness to pay for it.
As he rode north with Yuri’s army, Billy thought about last summer. He had a friend in the State Department who graduated with him in ‘15. Freddie always enjoyed scuttlebutt. He received a letter from Freddie. From the letter, Billy could see his old friend was offering something for something. After the usual pieces of news about what others were doing, he talked about Aleksai.
“The State Department, the Department of War and the President are all talking about Aleksai. Who is Aleksai? Somehow, the message that Aleksai sent to the secretary of state has gotten into the hands of a correspondent from the New York Times. Avery Whitaker did what any good newspaperman would have done. He gave it to his editor to print. The trouble started when Mortimer P. Mortimer (remember him?) mistakenly put it in the For General Distribution box. The Secretary is ready to fry him. By the time evening drinks and dinners were over that night, most of the important people in Washington had heard about the Aleksai solution. While the cable was quickly retrieved, its paraphrased version went something like this.
‘The Bolsheviks may take power in Russia. The United States would like to stop the Bolsheviks for two reasons. One it does not want to deal with a Bolshevik government which will renege on all its debts and is unlikely to honor any commitments to our country. Two, it wants to protect Allied interest by keeping Germany occupied in the east. In Russia, no solution exists for the Allies which includes keeping Russia in the war. Any party which is opposed to the Bolsheviks which has as part of its platform keeping Russia in the war will lose. Antiwar sentiment is so great that it will sink on that one issue. Present policy assures failure to stop the Bolsheviks, and the withdrawal of Russia from the war, which the Bolsheviks will do. It is still possible to achieve the first objective by divorcing it from the second. The presence of a government which is friendly or neutral to the Allies is what America should support.
Aleksai’
Billy Boy, if you could fill me in on who this Aleksai fellow is, I would owe you forever. Hoping this time you will write back, my friend. Rumor has it he spent some time in Mexico.
Freddie”
From time to time he would hear from Freddie. Freddie never forgot to ask the same question. Billy thought about what had happened since. Then, there was a chance. Now, there was littl
e. He thought about whether he should have confronted the Old Man then. No, he was too set in his ways. The embassy was still looking for Aleksai. He had been questioned about it by Merriweather.
The weary band rode into Colonel Perkhurov’s camp in midday. The sun had been strong for a late winter day and the snow was wet under their horses’ feet. As he stood among Yuri’s men, Billy could sense the excitement in the camp with each new arrival. He thought how alone the first group must have felt, wondering if only they would be there to face the Bolsheviks. From the hill, Billy could see the gleaming church spires and the steeply sloped roofs of Yaroslavl, almost five kilometers away. Beyond it he could see the great Volga flowing past the town, the land flat, rising only gently, then falling back. He knew the French were behind the planned attack on the town. Savinkov, once an aide to Kerensky, had convinced the French to provide money and arms to support uprisings in three towns. Yaroslavl was picked because it sat astride the rail line from Moscow to Archangel and because there were reports of great resentment of the Soviets there.
Perkhurov gave all the appearances of a man with a mission, of a man in charge. While his lieutenants hurried to keep up, he greeted each new group. Billy looked at the leaders of the men assembled there. Most seemed confident of themselves, used to command. He knew that most of the men who led the groups of assembled men believed in the democracy of Locke, Jefferson and Madison. All of the leaders felt the Bolsheviks had betrayed the revolution that had been building in Russia since the turn of the century. From a government of estates or interests, the Bolsheviks had transformed government into leadership by a single estate, a single interest. They had crushed the dream of a constituent assembly. Only Yuri, the man he cared for above all the others, was out of step with the men there.
