Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  The reply from Russia was attached to the telegram.

  “We the new Government of Russia have indeed arrested Captain Yuri Sirko Stop He will be treated fairly and kept in comfortable conditions while objective evidence is assembled by our police forces Stop Russia is keen to show the Swedish Government that we will find Miss Håkansson’s murderer and also that the new Bolshevik Government of Russia is committed to fairness and the humane treatment of prisoners Stop”

  I try to feel happy about this news. It’s the best I could possibly have hoped for – but despite that, all I can think of are the dire rumors I’ve heard about the Butyrka Prison.

  Emily, on the other hand, is thinking about our own situation. After a few minutes, she looks again at Mr Sokolov.

  “I thought you said lunch had been arranged for us? You told us that food would be brought to our compartment at half-past twelve. It’s now past one o’clock.”

  “Of course, ladies! I will go to check that lunch is on its way.” He bows to us as he leaves the compartment. As he shuts the door, Emily can’t wait to speak.

  “Thank God for that! We have five minutes to ourselves, without that odious man.”

  “I think, Emily, you dislike him because when he first met us at the Hotel Metropole he asked if we were mother and daughter.”

  “Well, what a stupid thing to think! Anyway, now he’s gone, I want to know about what you said when they arrested Yuri. Did you say you’ve got other evidence about the Håkansson murder, apart from Prince Alexei’s letter? Can it prove Yuri’s innocence?”

  “The evidence would definitely prove that he is innocent – if he could get a fair trial.” I explain about the exchange of telegrams, and my hopes that Yuri won’t be mistreated.

  “So what you’re saying, Agnes, is that if you put together all the evidence – the prince’s letter, the gun you found, and the testimonies of Rasputin and Bukin, it proves that Yuri must be innocent. In fact, we now know quite a lot about Håkansson’s murder. We know Yuri didn’t kill her, Rasputin didn’t, and Bukin and Aristarkhov have alibis.”

  “But if Aristarkhov had an accomplice, then he could have given himself an alibi, while the accomplice carries out the murder. And what better way to give yourself an alibi than by entering Prince Alexei’s room immediately after the shot is fired?”

  She looks at me. “That’s a darned good point. And now, Aristarkhov plans to avoid any blame himself, by putting Captain Sirko on trial for the crime! You’ve got this all worked out, Agnes. Aristarkhov arranged the murder of Svea Håkansson. That son-of-a-bitch is behind everything that’s going on.”

  “I’m not totally sure of that. But what I do know is that we need to find out more, somehow.”

  “I tell you what you need to find, Agnes. You need to find Aristarkhov’s accomplice. Someone does the general’s dirty work for him.”

  “I think I know who that is. The man at the Finland Station – the one who kept watching us, and whom Lenin was so keen to meet. I overheard his name: Ivan Horobets. I’m sure he was the man who tried to burn down a cottage that Professor Axelson and I were staying in when we first came to Russia. I wouldn’t be surprised if he worked for Aristarkhov. In fact, I feel certain of it.”

  The compartment door opens. A trolley appears in the doorway: behind it is a tired-looking waitress.

  “Ladies? This was ordered for you? Andrei said…”

  Emily buts in. “Yes. Thank you…” She looks at the waitress. “You called him Andrei. Do you know Mr Sokolov?”

  Despite the dark circles under her eyes, her face lights up, and the waitress shows us a lovely smile.

  “Oh yes! Every month or so, Andrei comes on this train. Always, he goes all the way to Moscow alone, then returns to Perm with guests.” She lifts silver covers off the trays. “The main course is beef stroganoff, made with fresh mushrooms and smetana – sour cream. It is Andrei’s favourite. I hope you enjoy it!”

  As soon as she’s gone, I look at Emily. “That was a good question you asked! So Sokolov does this journey regularly. I wonder who his ‘guests’ are?”

  “More to the point, Agnes, I’ve been thinking about what you were saying about Aristarkhov and his accomplice. Try this idea for size. You say this Horobets guy works for Aristarkhov. Suppose Horobets was there, at the Finland Station, as Aristarkhov’s representative?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at it like this. After the February revolution, Aristarkhov was in hiding, the revolutionaries were after his blood.”

  “Yes…”

  “So, what if Aristarkhov told Horobets to pretend to have Bolshevik beliefs, and to apply to join the St Petersburg Soviet?”

  I look at her pale, intense face. “I’m not sure I follow?...”

  “If Horobets joined the Bolsheviks, he could meet Lenin – and ask him if Aristarkhov can be taken into the Bolshevik fold.”

  I think about what she’s saying. “So that was how Aristarkhov switched sides… yes, it makes perfect sense, Emily – from Aristarkhov’s point of view. But I don’t understand why Lenin would be interested in such a deal.”

  Emily ponders for a moment, while I try to picture exactly what we saw at the station. I think aloud.

  “Do you remember how Lenin behaved, when he arrived at the Finland Station? He wasn’t interested in talking to Chkheidze. But he seemed very keen to meet Horobets.”

  Emily nods slowly. I can see that she’s thinking it all through.

  “Yes. I think I know why Lenin would be interested in having Aristarkhov on his side. Since that day at the Finland Station, I’ve realised how the Bolsheviks work. Lenin is actually a lot like the Tsar: his regime doesn’t tolerate dissent. I predict that Lenin will create a new secret police, a new Okhrana. If so, who better to lead it than an experienced man like Aristarkhov?”

  “That’s a very good point, Emily. A deal between Lenin and Aristarkhov would explain why the Bolsheviks now possess Okhrana’s old files.”

  “Yes – of course! I hadn’t thought of that angle – but that’s the reason Bukin was told to gather up the Okhrana files and send them to Aristarkhov. The general knew that if he held all the Okhrana files, he had a strong bargaining tool. Information is power.”

  “I agree, Emily. Lenin stepped off that train at the Finland Station – and Horobets was the person he wanted to meet first. That was because Lenin wanted to do a deal with Aristarkhov. The deal was good for both of them: Lenin got Aristarkhov’s skills and experience, and all the Okhrana files; Aristarkhov got a powerful position in Lenin’s government.”

  I’m just telling Emily the story of finding the gun under the ice at Tri Tsarevny, when Mr Sokolov reappears.

  “Your food is here! Ah, I see they have made you the beef stroganoff, with proper Russian smetana! Enjoy it – but we must eat quickly. In one hour we will cross the Kama Bridge, and arrive at Perm Station.”

  18 Xanadu

  Emily and I have been living in this strange community for a month. The Yermak Estate is a beautiful place on the banks of the Sylva River, deep in southern Siberia: when we arrived, its wooded parklands were a blaze of red and yellow fall colors. Even now, after all the leaves have fallen, it still looks charming: manicured lawns and a gravelled drive surround the neoclassical, white-painted mansion. Its pillared exterior and wide porches give it the air of an antebellum house in Georgia or the Carolinas.

  On our arrival at Yermak, Mr Sokolov introduced us to “the residents”. The first to greet us was a Mr Avdeyev, a flamboyantly-dressed man who told us he was a playwright – “My works have been been performed on Broadway, you know.” Then we were taken to see a florid-faced gentleman with a single name: Vova. Mr Sokolov whispered to us when we met “A great artist, a Socialist-Futurist”. Vova insisted on showing us his studio, a large dingy room full of semi-abstract monochrome canvases depicting industrial workers, factories and railway engines.

  After we left Vova to his paintings, Mr Sokolov took us alon
g to the main sitting room, where we met a gaunt, nervous-looking youth. Mr Sokolov introduced him as Fyodor Rokossovsky – “a promising young anarchist poet”. Our conversation was interrupted by the discordant thumping of a piano overhead. “That will be Mr Trifonov, an avant-garde composer” Sokolov explained. “He will not wish to come down to greet you: he cannot stand being disturbed. A lover of solitude, a kind of genius.” We finally met Mr Trifonov at dinner, where he talked, with his mouth full, the whole time.

  There are several others living here, too, although Emily and I are the only women, apart from the cooks and cleaners. The other “residents” introduced themselves over the next few days after our arrival. There’s a French travel writer, who told us that his stories of the hardships of peasant life in Russia, published as a serial by a leading Paris magazine, had angered the Tsar. He was denied a permit to travel onwards along the railway through Siberia, or back to Moscow, so he is stuck here. There are also two Russian journalists who were told last year by Okhrana that they must either stay at Yermak, or face prison. And finally, there’s Dr Günther, a German geologist who had been exploring the Ural Mountains in the summer of 1914. When the war broke out, he was arrested. He now lives here, surrounded by his fossil samples and seemingly very happy. All these people are accommodated at Yermak, with free board and lodging and an ample supply of books and newspapers. Philippe Dubois, the travel writer, summed it up to me one morning at breakfast.

  “It is very beautiful here at Yermak, a gilded cage. The real world is far away. For many years, the Tsar used this house as a place of exile for dissident intellectuals. If we were working-class troublemakers, we’d be in a forced-labor camp – or executed. But because we are all well-connected people, they feel obliged to treat us decently.”

  I ask him “What will happen – now that the Bolsheviks are in charge of Russia?”

  He looks out of the window, across the lawns, before answering me. “Maybe they will set us all free. But I don’t hold my breath for that happening.”

  “Really?”

  “I suspect that I may be kept here for some time – or moved, to somewhere worse. I used to read Lenin’s publications, when he was in exile in Switzerland. To be honest, his ideas scare me. Nor do I trust Sokolov: he used to work for the Tsar, but now he works equally happily for the Bolsheviks.”

  Mr Sokolov acts as a kind of host, and an entertainments manager. He is genuinely enthusiastic about literature: some evenings he reads aloud to us – chapters from Pushkin and Turgenev, and poetry by Longfellow and Wordsworth. One afternoon he arranged for a choir of local schoolchildren to perform for us, and another evening he invited a chamber orchestra from the nearby town of Kungur. Another night, we even had a performance from singers from Perm, performing arias from Mozart, Rossini and Verdi. Mr Trifonov boycotted all these events, declaring the music to be “unlistenable bourgeois decadence.” All the residents, except Dr Günther, hold strong political views, and there are often heated debates, in which Emily is as involved as the rest of them. I hardly speak: I just listen to the discussions, and wonder to myself whether any of their elaborate political theories could possibly work in practice.

  Although all the residents despise him, I think Mr Sokolov actually does a good job of keeping us all physically and culturally nourished. Every Saturday there is an “excursion”. The first was into Kungur town, a pleasant, traditional small Russian city with a bustling market. We were each given an allowance of money, to stock up on warm clothes for the coming winter. On our second trip we visited a breathtakingly beautiful monastery called Belagorsky, its tall white towers topped with golden domes that glittered in the pale November sunshine. And, letters are coming through to me – from Ma and Pa, from Abe, and from Professor Axelson. I have no idea when I will escape this strange exile – but in the meantime, I see no point in complaining.

  It’s a Friday evening in late November. I’m in the main sitting room with the other residents, writing a letter to Yuri, to be sent via the Moscow police. Mr Sokolov says that all my letters are forwarded to Yuri, but we have not been told where he is imprisoned, or anything about the progress of his trial. As I write, and try to describe to Yuri my visit to the monastery, I can hear the usual political arguments raging around the room. Mr Sokolov puts his head round the door.

  “Miss Agnes, Miss Emily! Might you both be free for a chat with me?”

  We accompany him to his office, a tiny place like a broom-cupboard with a desk and a bookshelf in it.

  “Firstly, I have some good news for you. Your associate Professor Axelson is now in Moscow, preparing for his rail journey into Siberia. He will join us very shortly.”

  I don’t know whether to be pleased that I will soon see the professor again, or sad that he, too, has not yet escaped the control of the Bolsheviks.

  “And my second piece of news concerns the weekly Yermak residents’ excursion, which is of course due to take place tomorrow.” Mr Sokolov pulls a slim volume from his bookshelf, and reads to us.

  “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

  A stately pleasure-dome decree:

  It was a miracle of rare device,

  A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!”

  He looks up at us, smiling. “That poem is by a famous English poet, a Mr Samuel Coleridge. But Kubla Khan was a real person, the Emperor of China and all Asia. Perm, Kungur and all these lands, from Siberia and the Urals to the Caspian Sea, were part of Kubla Khan’s empire – the realm of the Golden Horde of Tartary. And here, not far from Yermak itself, is where Kubla Khan had his caves of ice!”

  Despite his over-enthusiasm, I’m intrigued. Emily looks less impressed.

  “So why are you telling just us two about this? What about the others?”

  “The other residents have lived at Yermak longer. They have all been on an excursion to the ice caves already. But you American ladies have not, so I have arranged a private trip for you. The caves are some distance away, in the deep river valley beyond Kungur, so an early start will be needed tomorrow.”

  Day is dawning; the early light through the drapes is oddly luminous. I get up and draw them back, looking out of the window onto a different world.

  “Emily!” I look over to the other twin bed in the room. “Wake up! We have snow. An awful lot of snow.”

  The rising sun illuminates a land of icing-sugar: the first snowfall of the Siberian winter. But it’s the window itself that holds my attention: the sudden intense cold has created extraordinary ice-patterns, like giant crystallized ferns growing across the glass.

  We go downstairs for the early breakfast Mr Sokolov has arranged for us. I expect him to tell us that the trip is cancelled due to the weather. But he appears at the door of the dining room, as eager as ever.

  “Today, you will see the caves of Xanadu!”

  Emily looks less excited. “What about all this snow?”

  He laughs, trying not to appear sarcastic. “Here in the Urals, snow is as natural as sunshine! The sleigh has already been prepared ready for your journey. You will enjoy it – Yermak has the use of a troika.”

  Emily nods, but it’s not a word I know; I look at Mr Sokolov in puzzlement. He explains.

  “The troika – no visit to Russia is complete without a troika ride, Miss Agnes! A fast sleigh, pulled by three horses. Now, enjoy your breakfast.”

  There’s another mild surprise inside the dining room. The long table where we eat breakfast every day is completely covered in stones, except for our two set places at the far end.

  Emily glances at them. “Fossils. Dr Günther must have been sorting out some of his specimens last night.”

  Each rock, I notice, has a little paper label glued to it. Looking closer, I see the fossils embedded in the rocks. I pick one up; it’s a tiny, perfectly preserved fern. I think: millions of years later, the very same pattern can be found in the ice formations on my bedroom window.

  I can’t help looking at the carefully-written labels stuck on each
fossil, detailed the location Dr Günther found it in. He clearly travelled a lot before his capture: Perm, Yekaterinburg, Omsk, Tobolsk. One specimen catches my eye “From Kungur Ice Cave: purchased Kungur Town, October 1917.” I feel surprised that Dr Günther bought this fossil: I wonder why he didn’t collect his own specimens when he and the residents visited the cave.

  The troika, waiting for us in the courtyard of the house, is a beautiful sight. Three noble-looking white horses, their cold breath like clouds of steam, stand in front of the sleigh. As well as a collar harness, the middle horse has a carved wooden arch over its mane, with tiny silver bells hanging from it. Mr Sokolov points it out. “That is the shaft bow; it’s attached to those two long poles which connect to the sleigh. The driver drives the middle horse, a stallion called Sasha. He trots at a fast rate, and pulls the sleigh along. The side horses are mares – Masha and Dunya. They canter, not trot. But of course, all three can can gallop too. At full speed, they can travel over thirty miles an hour.”

  “They’re gorgeous horses.”

  They are the Orlov breed – Russia’s finest horses! Although the ancestor of all the Orlovs came originally from Turkey…” Mr Sokolov is about to tell us the history of the breed, but Emily buts in.

  “It’s cold out here. Are we ready to leave now?”

  Sokolov calls out loudly, and a man in a tall woolen hat appears. He steps up onto the driving bench of the troika, and gestures to Emily and me to take the padded seats in the rear of the sleigh. A boy follows the man out, carrying blankets; as soon as we are seated, he lays them over our knees, then stands back from the sleigh. The man shakes the reins, and we set off.