Passage into Light (The Russians Book #7)

executioner.

1

The cold clamped down upon Andrei’s fallen form as insistently as the pain and fear that gripped his soul. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness, but he knew the next time oblivion struck would be the last. He literally felt the life ebbing from his body.

Mama . . . he murmured, not even certain if sound accompanied the word.

I’m here now, my dear one, came an ethereal voice out of the dark shadows surrounding him.

Was he only imagining that voice as he’d thought he’d imagined Talia calling her kitty? Then hands began to jostle him. Had his attackers returned? Would they kill him now by manhandling his pain-wracked body? It certainly felt as if that were their intent. He cried out when a particularly sharp movement wrenched his side where the gunshot wound had penetrated.

Stop! Rudy, we are only making it worse for him.

That was the same voice Andrei had heard soothing him a moment ago, a female. Was it the voice of a rescuer rather than an attacker?

You fetched me out in this wretched storm to save this man, answered a male voice. Let’s get on with it.

But every movement pains him so.

Better for him to suffer now than to lie here and freeze to death. And I tell you, Sonja Morozovna, though he may die from his injuries, he certainly will perish if left in this storm any longer.

Oh, but my Ivan cannot die. . . . The woman brushed gentle fingers against Andrei’s cheek.

He isn’t Ivan. . . .

What . . . ?

Never mind that, Sonja, let’s just get him moved. I’ll grip him under the arms and try to drag him as much as possible. You mind his feet. I don’t know how we’ll get him up two flights of stairs to your flat, but even if we leave him in the entryway of the building, it will afford him some protection from the elements.

His bed is all ready for him with fresh, clean sheets. I knew he’d come home soon. I am ready for him. I have a nice ham in the oven baking. . . .

Ah, Sonja, sighed Rudy, if you have a ham in these times, or even clean sheets, I will give up my atheism and consider the possibility of a God.

Sonja made no response but to whisper words of encouragement to Andrei. Dear boy, it will hurt for a bit. It can’t be helped . . . be brave and strong, then you will be safe in your mama’s home.

Mama . . . you are here, then . . . ? breathed Andrei.

Always, child. I will not leave . . . and you will not leave me again.

The two rescuers began again the difficult and excruciating process of moving Andrei. Mercifully, he blacked out after a few minutes.

It took a lot longer than it would have in normal conditions to traverse the alley, round the corner, and cover the few yards to the building’s front entrance. But Rudy was not a large man, and he was a scholar, not a laborer, so he was hardly conditioned to move two hundred-plus pounds of dead weight even a short distance. Once they left the shelter of the alley, the wind and falling snow impaired their vision, and the icy ground caused them to slip and slide several times before they reached the steps to the building. And those five steps up might just as well have been a mountain. At least the doorman, who had disappeared when the revolution began, was not there to question them. Everyone knew all doormen in Russia were agents of the Okhrana.

By the time Andrei’s body was deposited in a corner of the inside entryway, as far from the door as possible, Rudy felt certain they were merely transporting a corpse. He had completed three years of medical school before he had been expelled for political reasons, but he did not need those years of instruction to tell him that no one in this man’s condition could survive such treatment. He was shocked when he bent over the body and felt Andrei’s chest rise and fall. True it was only a slight movement, but unmistakable nonetheless. The man was still alive!

Well, he made it this far, Sonja! said Rudy, clasping his frozen, gloved hands together to warm them.

Of course, Sonja replied. Did you ever doubt it? Now the stairs—

Hold it! I will die if I have to lug this bear to your flat. Leave him here for the night, and in the morning we can get more help. It will be easier, anyway, to transport him to a hospital from here.

A hospital . . . ? Sonja shook her head. I will not let my Ivan leave me again. Besides, I can nurse him better than any stranger in a hospital could.

You may be right there, said Rudy, especially in these times. But still it can wait till tomorrow—

No! I will get help now. He has come so far to get home. She spun around and rushed up the stairs.

Sonja Morozovna was about fifty years of age, though she looked much older. Her frame was petite and slightly bent in the shoulders, but she moved with amazing speed and agility. If only her mind were as quick and able as her body. But the last few years had taken a terrible toll on her. Rudy remembered her in happier days when her family filled the flat on the second floor and there was always laughter and life in her home. Though working-class folks, they were never as poor as most because her husband was a skilled weaver. Sonja, a hardworking, industrious woman, brought in additional income by selling fine handmade lace items. She was generous, though, with her bounty. Rudy and many of the other neighbors had often enjoyed her fresh bread or the sweets she loved to bake.

Three years of war destroyed all that. Her husband and two eldest sons were killed in the first year of fighting. Her youngest son, Ivan, overcome with grief, ran away and joined the army against her wishes. He was killed in the fall of 1916, less than six months ago. Sonja’s sanity had already begun to deteriorate. She simply did not have the stamina to face a grim, dark, lonely world with a future that promised only more heartache. Ivan’s death sent her completely over the edge. Perhaps that was a mercy. In her clouded mind the world had not changed. Why, she even continued to bake bread for her neighbors—not real bread, of course, for there was not enough flour for that. Wearing a smile that was an empty shadow of her former happiness, she would offer a dish just as empty.

To ease his mind of Sonja’s sad story, Rudy focused his attention on the wounded young man. He loosened the clothing, a difficult process because the blood-soaked areas around the wound were frozen and stuck to the broken skin. When Sonja returned he would have her boil water in her flat so he could pack the area with warm compresses. The cold had stanched the bleeding a bit, a fact that might well have saved the fellow’s life. The wound appeared to be the result of a gunshot, which raised many questions in Rudy’s mind. It was not surprising with all the violence and chaos in the city now. But it did cause Rudy to wonder what side his patient was on to have ended up in the line of fire. The dirty red armband tied around the young man’s coat sleeve meant he supported the revolutionaries. However, there were many who had donned the armbands only in hopes of traversing the city safely.

Rudy Gruenwald himself was a revolutionary, though he could claim no membership in a specific party. At the beginning of the war his German heritage had caused him to be ostracized at the university. He was already accustomed to harsh treatment because of his Jewish ancestry, but it nevertheless encouraged him to become more deeply involved in revolutionary activity. He finally got himself expelled from medical school for marching with a group of strikers at the Putilov Steel Works about a year ago. After that he had immediately been drafted into the military. His German name no longer seemed to matter. Not fancying the underground life, he did his duty—that is until about three months ago when he deserted along with droves of other disillusioned Russian soldiers. The senseless carnage, due almost entirely to the inept leadership of bungling Russian generals, had become too much. Rudy could not stand by and watch a moment longer. Under normal conditions it would have been unwise to return to his old home, but with no place else to go, he took the risk. He found his old room let out to other tenants, but there was a vacant attic room that proved quite suitable. And, as it turned out, the country was in such disorder that he was never pursued.

In a few minutes Sonja returned with two old men at her side—strong, young men were hard to come by these days. Between the four of them, they managed to carry the unconscious man up the stairs to Sonja’s flat. Unfortunately, the jostling caused the man’s wound to start bleeding again.

You must patch him up, Rudy, Sonja said. The young man had been laid upon her own bed, which for warmth’s sake was in the main room of her two-room flat.

Rudy shrugged. Even with three years of medical school behind him, he felt far from competent to treat such a wound. Still, under the circumstances, he might be the young man’s best hope of survival. He certainly couldn’t harm him any further.

I’ll need some water boiled, he told Sonja. And gather whatever you can find to use as bandages. I will also need instruments—a good, sharp knife will have to do. And vodka—someone in this building must have some hidden away. Get all you can.

Sonja jumped up and hurried to the door, but she paused before opening it. You must save him, Rudy . . . he must live.

Rudy nodded and tried to offer a reassuring smile. Too bad God did not exist, for the young patient had little hope but that.

2

A huge red flag dominated the top of the Winter Palace. Images of double-headed eagles lay in piles of rubble on the streets. The monarchy was gone. The tsar no longer ruled. But Russia was still Russia. All was completely changed, yet eternally the same.

The khvost, or bread queue, was a seemingly eternal fact of life in Russia. Anna Fedorcenko Grigorov had come to think very little of waiting hours in a khvost for bread, meat, or a few beets for borscht. Instead of complaining about the inevitable, most Russians just made the most of such an ordeal, turning the khvost into a social experience. It became the main source of news and gossip, and of many of the most fantastic rumors imaginable. Anna once heard that the Germans had surrendered, then five minutes later that the Allies had been driven from Europe altogether.

The only thing Anna knew without doubt was that the future of Russia, and indeed her own future, was as uncertain now as when she had been a young girl embarking on a journey from her peasant village to the frightening big city.

She let her thoughts wander wistfully back forty-one years to that day she left her family’s izba in Katyk. Her papa used to call her his little snow child, after the old fairy tale about the childless couple who after years of longing for a child were finally given a daughter formed out of the snow. But when the child had to leave them before the winter snows melted, they were greatly grieved until she assured them she would return with the first snowfall of winter. That was Papa’s way—always finding joy in difficult circumstances. No doubt he would quip now that waiting in line for bread for hours wasn’t so bad, because it gave him a chance to visit with his neighbors.

Oh, Papa, Anna thought with a sigh, even you would find it hard to rejoice in the midst of the grief that weighs upon me.

For days after Andrei had been shot, Anna kept hoping he would show up at her door. Yuri might have miscalculated the seriousness of his brother’s wounds and the hopelessness of his survival. But after two weeks, even Anna had to accept the fact that her son was dead. It would drive her insane to keep on hoping. Yet there were times when Anna wondered how she kept her sanity. Despite everything she still could not shake the image of the snow child returning when all seemed darkest. There was a part of her, passed down from her father, Yevno Burenin, that made hope impossible to shake entirely. Although each day she recognized there was a very thin line between hope and lunacy.

She had to go on—as she had been doing all her life. It was the same for Russia, too. The Motherland would go on, limping at times, full of despair, but it would continue. If there was one thing Russia—and Russians—knew, it was how to go on.

Anna shivered as a gust of wind swept down the street, seeming effortlessly to penetrate her threadbare coat. It was almost April but winter still gripped the city, as it would for several more weeks. The coming of spring would only slightly ease the hardships of war and revolution. There were still few men to plant spring crops. Anna had heard from her son-in-law Daniel that Russian loss of life in the war had thus far amounted to millions, so that even when the war ended, laborers would be in short supply. Who could tell when food would again be plentiful in Russia?

Anna’s thoughts quickly skipped to Misha—the one person, besides Andrei, who was most on her mind these days. How desperately she longed for him, for his dear friendship, and for the marriage that had been allowed so little time to be enjoyed. He was a prisoner of war, and there was no telling where he was or how he was. Anna prayed for him daily and, perhaps selfishly, for his speedy return. Secretly, she hoped the revolutionaries who wanted the war ended had their way, even if it meant Russia pulling out prematurely and leaving the battle against the Germans solely to their allies. She didn’t care what it took, if only it brought Misha back to her. Misha himself would probably be the first to chide her for her disloyal thoughts, but he would understand, too. Maybe by now he had also had enough of war and separation. Before he left he had promised her that after the war he would resign his commission with the Cossack Guards so they could be together always.

Anna was jarred from her thoughts by a stirring in the queue. She was several yards from the door to the bakery, but the grumbling voices, rising in discontent, filtered back to her quickly.

This is unjust! yelled a woman.

We have waited all morning.

We must have bread!

Even as the voices rumbled back, the queue itself suddenly surged forward. And Anna remembered how this Russian institution, khvost, could very quickly turn from a social gathering into something else entirely. Caught in the tide of the erupting queue, Anna stumbled forward against her will. As the crowd opened up momentarily before her, she caught a brief glimpse of a sign in front of the bakery:

NO MORE BREAD.

The door was shut, yet several men lunged toward it like a human battering ram. A crashing sound, as of breaking glass, reached Anna’s ears, then the crowd closed back in and Anna was jostled roughly, first one way then another. She fought to stay on her feet.

In all the time of food shortages, she had managed to avoid the riots that sometimes broke out in the queues. Mariana had been caught once in a riot last week and had come home bruised and disheveled. Now it seemed as if Anna’s luck was at its end. Her hatred of crowds had begun that awful day at Khodynka Field at the time of Nicholas the Second’s coronation. Hundreds of people had been killed during a picnic when they feared there would not be enough food to go around. Sergei and Misha had been there for her then, but now she was alone. Her heart quickened with dread and fear.

Please . . . this won’t help, she struggled to get the words out. Her breathing felt strangled as if she might suffocate.

No one heard her small voice. The yelling of those around her continued. Even in her panic Anna noted how the anger of the mob lacked focus. The tsar was gone. Who could they blame now for their woes? But Anna spent little time philosophizing. She had to concentrate on the situation at hand and get away before she was hurt or even killed. And her fear made her struggle with a strength she had forgotten she possessed. She held up her arm to fend off a stick being wielded wildly in the hand of a man who under normal conditions would never think to harm a woman. Then she turned and made one final, desperate, push to extricate herself from the mob. She pushed hard at a body that had suddenly come tripping into her path. The person stumbled and grabbed Anna for support, causing them both to tumble to the ground. Anna used the momentum from the fall to roll away from the crowd. When she finally came to a stop a few feet from the angry queue, she was not alone. The person she had pushed had rolled with her and now bounced on top of her.

It was an old woman.

Anna gasped, realizing that in desperately thinking only of herself she had done the very thing that appalled her in others. Oh, Matushka! she exclaimed, gently taking the woman’s arm and helping her up. Are you hurt?

The woman shook herself and appeared like a brittle leaf about to fall from a half-dead tree. No worse than I was when I woke this morning, said the woman. And you?

Nothing to speak of.

We are Russian women, eh? It would take more than a mere bread riot to defeat us.

I . . . hope so, Anna replied, feeling as shaky as the shy girl she had been forty odd years ago.

The woman parted her thin, dry lips in a toothless grin. Never doubt it . . . never, deary. Tsars come and go, but matushkas like us will always be.

They moved away from the mob even as its initial burst of anger began to ebb. Anna still wanted to get as far away as possible.

Good day to you, Matushka, Anna said.

And to you, also.

As Anna hurried home, she tried to be encouraged by the old woman’s words, but the empty basket on her arm made her think instead of the proverb, We do not eat the bread, it eats us.

At the door to her building, she met Raisa Sorokin, who had been foraging for food in another part of town. Her luck had been better—she had brought back a pound of dry fish. But without bread it would make a spare meal for the many mouths they had to feed. For a time there had been sixteen of them crammed into the flat, but soon after the tsar’s abdication, Paul and Mathilde Burenin had gone to a friend’s place near the Tauride Palace where Paul was spending a great deal of time. It was still a full household with Daniel and Mariana and their children occupying the big bedroom; while the single women, Anna, Raisa, Countess Zhenechka, and Teddie wedged into the other bedroom. Yuri, Katya, and Irina shared the little cubbyhole room, but Yuri was gone most of the time at his hospital and took all of his meals there to ease the burden on supplies. He also pilfered what he could from the hospital larders for the household, but there was less and less available for that purpose. Daniel also brought back what food he could, using contacts at the American Embassy.

And so they managed from day to day. No one was starving yet—that was something.

Raisa gave Anna a quick appraisal. Your coat sleeve is torn, she said with concern.

How can you tell on this ragged coat?

I mended every tear yesterday. This is definitely a new one.

Anna shrugged. There was a bit of a row in the queue today. Nothing serious, thank God.

Oh, what a sad time we live in. Raisa opened the door to their flat. I wonder how—

But she was cut off by an exuberant childish yell.

Grandma! Auntie Raisa! Look what Papa brought! It was little Zenia, Mariana’s youngest, as always full of boundless energy. Her mop of yellow curls danced wildly as she bounced toward them.

What can it be? Anna forced herself to catch the child’s excitement. The Crown Jewels perhaps?

A loaf of bread would be far better, said Raisa.

Zenia clasped Anna’s hand and fairly dragged her into the kitchen. Raisa followed close behind. They found Daniel and Mariana and the other children, all full of excitement and chattering merrily.

Ah! Mama and Raisa, you’ve returned just in time, said Daniel. Look here. He gestured with his hand toward the table on which two newspapers were prominently displayed. Russian papers were rare to come by these days, but Anna quickly noted these were in English. One was the London Times, the other the New York Register, the paper Daniel worked for.

Word at last from the outside world, said Daniel. I’ve managed to get dispatches out, but receiving anything has been next to impossible.

I’ve felt we have been on a desert island for the last weeks, said Mariana.

No more. Daniel grinned. And the biggest news is confirmation of the rumors that the United States has recognized the Provisional Government. Now many Americans, including President Wilson, are turning the war cause into a struggle of democracy against absolutism. It won’t be long now before the U.S. enters the war.

Thank God! said Anna. That can only bring the end that much closer. But, Daniel, as much as the newspapers are exciting, I can’t imagine them causing Zenia to bubble so.

Not newspapers, Grandma, said Zenia. Show her, Papa.

Daniel chuckled and picked up an opened parcel lying next to the papers. My friend from the embassy who brought the papers also brought a few small delicacies—peppermint sticks for the children and real coffee for the rest of us.

It had been months since there had been such treats for the children. And as for coffee . . . Anna preferred tea, but real anything would be a delight after months of ersatz brews that had long ago lost their marginal appeal.

Can we have one, Papa? pressed Zenia.

I’ll tell you what, you can each have one now. But take them out to the other room so we grown-ups can have a few minutes to talk.

When the children exited, each holding a piece of candy, Daniel continued, I have a bit of other news to pass along. The fellow who delivered these newspapers is planning to return to the States in a couple of days. Mariana, he has assured me he can escort you and the children out of the country.

But, Daniel, I’m not ready to leave.

I know, we have discussed this before, but who knows when a chance like this may arise again. It is getting harder and harder to come and go. Your papers are about to expire, Mariana, and since you are still a Russian citizen, you will be at the mercy of the Russian Emmigration Department.

Yes, but— Mariana glanced at Anna.

I don’t expect you to stay, said Anna. In fact, I would feel so much better if you were safely away from here.

Then I would go crazy with worry, Mariana countered. I would rather we suffer together than be cut off from one another. Besides, I am certain things will settle down soon. Now that the new government is official, they will begin to regulate and alleviate many of the problems. She looked to Daniel with imploring eyes. "Let’s give it a while longer. You certainly don’t plan on leaving now that so much is happening. I want us to face whatever comes together. Please, Daniel."

He shook his head with defeat. All right. I really didn’t expect to win this battle, anyway. But I intend to keep closely attuned to the political situation, and at the least sign of things going awry, I will insist upon you and the children leaving.

Mariana gave her husband a slight smile. And I will obey, my dear, as always.

This brought a smattering of knowing chuckles from all the others, including Daniel. Then Anna, not wanting this lighthearted moment to end, said, Why don’t I fix us all some of that wonderful coffee?

3

Yuri Fedorcenko had grown accustomed to death and dying. He was even used to the shortages of the most basic medical supplies. But what he would never become hardened to—at least he hoped it would never happen—was the despair that daily surrounded him. The wretched stare of a mother who knew she was completely helpless to prevent her family’s starvation, or the forlorn eyes of a child who has lost his innocence, along with the childish concept of his parents’ invincibility. And, worse yet, the abject misery of men broken by war and famine and total loss of control over their own destinies.

It was, of course, the men to whom Yuri most related. Some days he felt as broken as the worst of them. He felt as if he were being carried along by a raging river, clinging to a thin chunk of bark—that alone keeping him from being sucked under the relentless current. If only he could staunch the wild flow, or at least climb, even for a brief moment, to the muddy shore.

Just a moment’s rest—

Then he reminded himself that rest was the last thing he wanted. Not a night had passed since Rasputin’s death, and especially since Andrei’s death, that had not been shattered by nightmares. He dreaded sleep, and only his exhaustion at the end of fifteen-hour days—and many nights on call in the hospital—forced him to face his bed at all. The fact that his days were often waking nightmares did not help.

He wanted desperately to find hope, a small primrose among the ashes of a dying world. He longed for even a fraction of his mother’s faith. He did not know why he could not find in God the comforter she had surely found during these days of grief. His faith had never been as strong as that of his parents, but now the gulf separating him from God was nearly insurmountable. Only nearly . . . ? Then perhaps he was able to concede some hope after all. Perhaps if he prayed harder or went to Mass more often. He had tried to talk to Daniel a few times, but Yuri had a hard time accepting his brother-in-law’s simple assurance of God’s grace. Absolution could not be that simple. One must suffer. But perhaps that was only the Russian way. What if the way to God was indeed as unencumbered as Daniel, and even his own mother, tried to tell him? What if—

Dr. Fedorcenko! A nurse hurried up to Yuri, who was standing at the nurse’s station making notes in a patient’s chart.

Yes, Sister.

There is a man in Ward Three asking for you. He is quite agitated and insistent—

A man? A young man? Who—?

I don’t know. I didn’t see him. The head nurse just sent me to fetch you—

Before she could finish, Yuri was hurrying down the corridor. He bypassed the elevator that was slow and often malfunctioning, like most machines in Russia these days. He went instead to the stairwell, flung open the door, and raced up the steps two at a time. He knew it was irrational but he could not help himself. All reason and medical knowledge told him Andrei could not have survived the blizzard that night with his wounds. Yet Yuri still found himself hoping—ah, maybe he wasn’t as dead inside as he feared! He scrutinized anyone coming into the hospital who even vaguely resembled his brother. Even on the street his heart would leap at the sight of a large man. It was possible Andrei might have been found and taken to another hospital in the city as an Ivanov, an unidentified indigent. Daniel had revealed that after entering Russia Andrei had given his travel papers over to Daniel. He had feared being caught on the streets teeming with revolution carrying the diplomatic documents Daniel had arranged for him and being mistaken as an envoy of the tsar. As far as Daniel knew, those had been the only identifying papers Andrei had.

Yuri rushed into Ward Three, then slowed in order to collect himself. He was still the Chief of Surgery and must at least make an attempt at decorum.

Sister Elizabeth came to him as he entered. Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor. It really wasn’t an emergency, however—

Where is he? Yuri broke in, eyes anxiously scanning the ward.

The nurse nodded toward a curtained bed. Yuri now noted two guards, wearing the insignia of the Provisional Government, standing in front of the curtain. Yuri strode to the bed and pulled aside the curtain.

I said I wanted privacy! came a harsh, vaguely familiar voice from the bed.

Yuri saw that it was indeed a large man on the bed—but not the man he hoped for. It was instead his grandfather’s cousin, Count Cyril Vlasenko.

Oh, it’s you, then, said the count. It’s about time.

Yuri swallowed his disappointment and tried hard not to