by Dan Millman
Stakkos also learned that, like him, Korolev had left home early. Beyond that, he would say no more except, “There was trouble at home. They were afraid of me after that.”
“They threw you out?”
Korolev shook his head. “One morning I woke and they were gone…” He stopped and turned his blue-eyed gaze on Stakkos. “What I have told you is for your ears alone. We must have this understanding: If you repeat it, I’ll kill you—or die in the attempt. But more likely, I will succeed.”
Nodding, Stakkos placed Korolev under the same conditions, adding, “I’m good to those who are loyal and not so gentle with those who betray me.”
They looked into one another’s eyes, and for the first time in his memory, Korolev felt something akin to fear. He shook it off and added one more condition: “I have a strong appetite for women. So when we take prisoners—”
“We will take no prisoners—”
“Before they die, I will have the women first. Do you agree?”
Gregor Stakkos agreed readily. Korolev could have his women. Stakkos would have his power.
In this way they formed a bond of sorts. Over time these two men would form the core of a new breed of Cossacks, with Stakkos as Ataman. And like-minded men would be drawn to this Ataman and his right-hand man as flies find their way to fresh dung.
.17.
IN MID-FEBRUARY, on a rainy morning just before they got out of bed, Anya whispered, “I have something special to tell you, Sergei.”
“Everything you tell me is special, my sweet.”
She nudged him in the ribs. “This is more special. Are you listening? Really listening?”
He turned toward her, vaguely aware that after work he needed to fix the basin in the kitchen. “When do I not—?”
She touched her finger to his lips. “A new life has begun inside me. I can feel the baby…”
Sergei was not sure he had heard correctly. It was as if Anya had just announced that she could float from the ground and fly. “A baby?” he said. “Our baby?”
Anya laughed. “I don’t recall making a baby with anyone else, but let me think…”
“When did you know?”
“I suspected something in January but wanted to be certain. It must have happened soon after we married. Maybe even on the first night,” she said.
In a state of wonder, he reached out to touch her belly. “Can I feel it moving?”
Anya rolled her eyes. “Sergei Sergeievich, you wise and silly man, he is probably still no bigger than your fist. It will be months before you can feel him kick like his father.”
“His…?”
Anya hesitated. “Yes, I think the baby is a boy, but—”
“Then a boy he shall be!” he pronounced, thrilled by the prospect of making his own family. “We shall have a house full of children, and…” Then he thought of Valeria. “Does Mother know?”
“Of course not! Do you think I would tell anyone before I told you?”
“We must tell her and Andreas! Our son shall be born in America!”
Anya leaned against him. “Yes, in America…”
“I’ll teach him all I know—how to survive in the wilderness—”
Anya laughed. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? We mustn’t plan his future just yet. After all, he could be a she.”
His eyes widened at the possibility. “A daughter? As graceful as her mother? Then she shall be a ballerina!”
Anya paused then, glowing with happiness. “Is life not a wonder, Sergei? Four months ago you didn’t know I was alive. And now you’re planning our daughter’s life as a prima ballerina in the Mariinsky Theater—”
“Anya,” he interrupted “Not in the Mariinsky Theater—our child will grow up in America…”
“Of course, Sergei—it was only a slip. Do they have ballet in America?”
“I expect so—and hot water in the kitchen, and indoor commodes…”
“No more trips to the kolonka at the corner to draw water? Or running downstairs to the toilet? Or heating bathwater on the primoos?” Anya asked. “That alone is enough to draw me across the sea! Oh, Sergei, if this is a dream, I never want to wake up.”
He embraced Anya so gently that she laughed. “I won’t break, you know,” she said, giving him a quick squeeze before slipping out of bed.
Before Sergei left the apartment that day, they agreed not to tell Valeria until dinner, when they would all be together.
That night, Anya and Valeria brought in the food. Sergei sat grinning until Andreas finally said, “Well? What is it?”
From the expression on Anya’s face, Valeria suspected the truth but waited, breathless, for confirmation.
Upon hearing the news, Valeria turned and rushed into the kitchen. Sergei looked bewildered. Anya quickly followed her mother. A few minutes later Anya emerged, smiling as she wiped a tear from her eye, and explained, “It’s okay. Mother just didn’t want us to see her cry again. She is making a honey cake to celebrate.”
With the coming of spring, Anya and Sergei took walks in the fresh evening air as her constitution allowed. In the early months she had some bad days, but now, in her fifth month, she felt in the best of health. On Sundays they took long walks and spoke of their future together.
On the last Sunday in May, in the sixth month of Anya’s term, Sergei took her on her first ride to the meadow where he had found his grandfather’s clock.
As they walked the perimeter of the meadow, in the shade of the trees, Sergei glanced often at his wife, checking to make sure she was all right. He needn’t have worried—Anya thrived in the outdoors, pointing out birds, delighted by her brief sighting of a doe and her fawn.
Ankle-high grasses waved in a soft summer breeze, with red, yellow, and purple flowers scattered everywhere. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Let’s spread our picnic blanket over there.” They ate their fill and spent a rare day alone. If Sergei had suddenly died and found himself in heaven, it could not have been so diff e rent from that day with Anya in the meadow.
The afternoon was marred only slightly by a cloud of dust to the east, reminding Sergei of the riders who had confronted him nearly a year before. He could just make out a small band of passing horsemen. A few minutes later he looked again and they were gone. But he was left with that restless feeling again, glad that they would soon leave for America.
That very night at dinner Sergei announced that he had saved enough for their tickets and initial expenses, and in a few weeks they would depart. He said nothing about his sense of urgency—no point in burdening others with his concerns.
When Anya took the dishes into the kitchen, Valeria came over and sat next to Sergei. Taking his hands, she said softly, “Sergei, have I not loved you and been good to you?”
“Yes, Mother, of course.”
Having gained this concession, she continued, “You know that I may never see my daughter again, the world being what it is. May I at least see my grandchild?”
Sergei had seen this coming. Next, he thought, she will be asking us to stay until the child’s confirmation or bar mitzvah. He would not be swayed so easily. “Andreas will marry,” he responded. “Then you’ll have many—”
“Who can predict?” she said, outflanking him. “Andreas has not yet thought of marriage, much less children. Sergei…I’m not asking you to stay forever—I would if I thought there were a chance—but can you at least find it in your heart to grant this one delay? Let me assist my only daughter as she gives birth to her first child!”
Sergei turned from Valeria’s anguished, imploring face to see Anya in the doorway, listening and waiting in silence for his response.
Despite his misgivings, Sergei heard himself say, “All right, Mother. You will see the birth of your first grandchild—but as soon as we are able to travel, we will go without delay.”
An ecstatic Valeria embraced him. “You are such a good man, Sergei—”
“And a good husband,” said Anya.
.18.
WHEN GREGOR STAKKOS and the one-armed giant Korolev arrived at a village of Cossacks in the region near the Caucasus Mountains of Georgia, both spoke and acted with discretion. As mounted warriors, they were provisionally welcomed into the everyday activities of the settlement. They worked for food and lodging and bided their time, waiting for an opportunity to prove themselves.
They did not have to wait long. A few weeks after their arrival, Cossack warriors returned to the settlement after a scouting mission and told of Abreks—Chechen bandits—who had crossed the river to raid the Russian side. This time they had killed two Russians. On alert, expecting more raids, the Cossacks doubled their sentries, with each watching out for the other so no sentry could be taken without alerting the others.
Stakkos saw his chance to earn a hero’s welcome. He had already drawn the admiration of several younger men with stories of his conquests. Some of the stories were true, and the rest were drawn from his imagination. The fact that the one-armed warrior rode with him only added to his reputation.
Stakkos told his young admirers, “I do not think we should wait for these Abreks to cross the Terek. Korolev and I will raid their camp this very night. We will find the Chechen encampment and kill them all. We will bring back weapons, horses, and boots. And some souvenirs—maybe an ear or two,” he added, holding up a leather pouch. Two of the youths, impatient for glory and adventure, volunteered immediately; three more, not wanting to appear cowardly, followed.
So it was that Gregor Stakkos and his small band silently approached the enemy camp in the predawn darkness. He warned his men to save the single shot from each pistol until absolutely necessary—to favor the knife and saber for their silent efficiency.
These Abreks were hardened fighting men. But they had never expected such a daring preemptive raid. The seven young warriors would have slaughtered the bandits in their sleep had not one of the enemy gotten up to relieve himself and seen a movement in the bushes. He just had time to shout a warning before his cry was cut short.
Suddenly alert, the Abreks leaped up to grab for their knives, pistols, and rifles. Seeing his surprise unravel, Stakkos led a determined charge, nearly decapitating one warrior with his saber as he drew a pistol with the other hand and fired. The young men, inspired by their leader’s bravado and Korolev’s apparent invincibility, fought like demons.
Eight men and two women had lived in the enemy camp. Stakkos killed the first woman as she leveled a carbine at one of his men. Korolev captured the second woman alive and when he was finished with her, she was more than willing to die. In this manner, the Ataman and his first lieutenant, Korolev, initiated the first of many new traditions for these youths whom he now called “his men.” And so they were.
Their band of seven returned to camp leading enemy horses, their tunics covered with blood—mostly that of their enemies. Only two boys had received minor wounds, which they wore proudly, like medals.
Gregor Stakkos had proven his abilities at strategy and leadership as well as his bravery in battle. They were welcomed as heroes, until the younger men bragged about their treatment of the woman. When the elders heard this talk, and saw the bag of “souvenirs,” they spat on the ground, leaving a bitter taste to this day of bravery and infamy. So, after earning the adulation of the youth and the enmity of the elders, Stakkos left with five young Cossacks—the beginning of his band.
In the coming months, under the Ataman’s authority, the band began scouting for small Jewish shtetls, cabins, or farms. At random, every month or two, they would ride in like a storm, leaving fire and death in their wake. Other times they rode on normal patrols, as did other Cossacks bands, hunting other enemies of Russia.
This pattern of roaming patrols, changing camps, and the random slaughter of Jews continued until a scouting party returned to camp. Soon after, the Ataman announced to his men, “Break camp. We ride north!” They moved like a force of nature, wreaking havoc along the way, each time disappearing without a trace.
.19.
JUNE SLIPPED into July and the full heat of a St. Petersburg summer. Sergei decided that his uneasy feelings were normal for a husband and father-to-be. He had never before known such happiness, and he wanted nothing to change. I must have faith that all will be well, he told himself, recalling what his grandfather had told him: “Life is God’s book, not ours, to write.”
He pondered these words as he read Bibliograficheskie zapiski, which reported both facts and rumors about raids in the Jewish settlements to the south. He had that sinking feeling again in the pit of his stomach—but in a few short months his family would be on their way to America. And someday Valeria and Andreas might follow.
As each day brought them closer to their departure, family gatherings took on an air of the sacred. Valeria became possessive of Anya and wanted to sit and speak with her daughter alone. Sergei was glad to accommodate a mother’s wishes. He and Anya would have a lifetime together, but Valeria’s time with her daughter was drawing to a close.
When Valeria came in and sat near him, he put down the news publication.
“I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Sergei.”
“I did, thank you.”
“Anya has gone to your room to read. I thought we might talk.”
“Of course.”
With some difficulty, she said, “Motherhood is sweet, Sergei, but sometimes bitter. Because, those we most love, we miss all the more when they are gone. Now, when I speak with Anya, my words fall far short of what I want to tell her. I want her to know how much I love her…how much she means to me…but she cannot know, she will not understand—until her own child grows up. Then she will know…and she will miss me too, Sergei. She will miss me terribly.”
Valeria began to cry softly. Sergei did not know what to do, so he just sat with her. He did not speak, for what words could console a mother when the hour came to part? After a time she released his hand, which she had been squeezing tightly, thanked him for listening, and started toward her room.
The next words he heard were not meant for him but only whispered thoughts: “A grandmother should be near her grandchild…” Then, with a sigh, Valeria disappeared through the doorway.
Her turmoil was clear: She wanted to come with them—but she could not, would not, allow herself to do so. Her roots lay in Russia, but her heart would soon cry out across the sea.
Even though her grandchild wasn’t expected for many weeks more, Valeria grew more anxious by the day—not so much about the birth itself, but because it signaled her daughter’s impending departure. So she and Sergei maintained a sort of détente. She cared for him, but he was also the man who would take away her daughter and grandchild to a faraway land.
As they waited those final weeks, Sergei gave his notice at work and planned their passage, obtained luggage, and helped Anya pack their few belongings. Meanwhile, Valeria kept busy, cleaning and preparing for the arrival of her grandchild. Arrival, then departure.
And his grandfather’s clock sat on the mantelpiece, ticking away the hours.
On the third Sunday in July, Anya asked Sergei to take her to their “happy spot” in the meadow for a picnic, where she might cool her tired feet in the shallows of the Neva.
Sergei thought she should remain close to home, just in case. “Aren’t you far along for a bumpy ride?” he asked.
“I feel farther along than any woman who has ever lived,” she said. “Still, I’d welcome a carriage ride in the fresh air and a day alone with my husband.”
An hour later, Sergei helped Anya up to her seat. A worried-looking Valeria handed Sergei the picnic basket. “We’ll be home long before dark,” he assured her. With a flick of the reins, they were off.
As they rode along the canal passing beneath Nevskiy Prospekt and turned north, Sergei said, “Anya, my sweet, do you believe in fate?”
“I believe in you.”
“I know you do,” he said, leaning over to kiss her hair. “But do you believe in des
tiny?”
Anya laughed. “How could I not believe when such strange and wondrous events brought you to me?” She rubbed her abdomen. “And now we have another miracle.” Drawing one of his hands from the reins, she held his palm to her round belly. “Do you feel him?”
Sergei sensed nothing at first—then one thump, and another. “He is already practicing his kicks and punches,” said Sergei, glad for this day, glad for this life.
Making their way out of the city limits and up a country road, they passed a farm. Anya smiled and waved to the farmer, who nodded back in greeting.
Soon after, they arrived at the meadow. Sergei had planned on setting their blanket in the center of the clearing, atop the rise where he had found his grandfather’s final gift. But the oppressive heat sent them closer to the edge of the forest, where they set out the food, rested in the shade, and gazed out across the meadow.
.20.
DURING THE REIGN of Tsar Aleksandr III and the period of counterreform, violence increased against the Jews and gypsies. The Chernosotentzi, extreme nationalists, were one source of the scourge. Another source was Gregor Stakkos and his men.
Unlike the nationalists, Stakkos had no ideology; his hatred of Jews was personal, his motives unexamined. Unlike most Cossacks, who might kill enemies of the tsar but would not steal like common thieves, Stakkos had a passion for acquiring anything of interest or value before they burned all evidence of their crimes.
He left no witnesses to provide clues to their whereabouts, and was obsessive about security. He and his men would never ride directly toward camp; they would circle back over rocky terrain and streambeds, so they seemed to disappear like ghosts. Their raids produced rumors both terrifying and confusing.
