It was called the “Siberian Italy,” and was located at the foot of the Sayan Mountains, on a tributary of the Yenisey River, about two hundred miles north of the Mongolian border. At times during the year it was as fair a place as a person could want in Siberia, even for an “enforced resident.” Only the most privileged rated exile to these regions around Shushenskoye.
That a simple peasant lad—a revolutionary by trade and an erstwhile scholar—could be here was nothing less than a miracle. Paul Yevnovich Burenin did not deny that. He had been a fortunate man, and try as he might to discount the blessings of an Almighty God, he had to give credit where it was properly due. He had been in a far different place sixteen years ago when he was first banished to this life of exile. A year of hard labor in Kolyma nearly ruined his health, but it also inadvertently led to his present fortune. For the next three or four years, as an “enforced resident” in a village near Kolyma, he had been plagued with a serious lung condition and borderline tuberculosis. Thoughts of escape, even if remotely possible, had to be abandoned. And as time passed he began to make a fair life for himself. A wealthy merchant engaged him as tutor for his young son, and Paul earned the friendship and respect of the man who later proved to be quite influential. About ten years ago, when Paul’s health threatened to fail completely, his employer pulled some strings to have his exile transferred to this balmy, healthful spot.
In Shushenskoye the summers were warm, often downright hot. Mosquitoes and midges were an interminable nuisance, but they weren’t nearly as bad as in the north. Good hunting here helped pass the time and put food on the table. The pine woods abounded with reindeer and bear and wild goats; if one had an interest in trapping, the taiga supplied sable. But it was still Siberia, and winters still managed to clamp down on the land like a heavy-handed barin. For many months out of the year the little village was completely cut off from surrounding civilization, even from Minusinsk, about forty miles to the north.
Paul read incessantly; one of his driving motivations in life was that of obtaining books. Reading was the only way not to go absolutely insane during those dismal winter nights. While he awaited the paperwork for his final transfer to Shushenskoye, he had made the acquaintance of another exile in Krasnoyarsk who was from a rather well-to-do family and received a regular supply of reading material from Russia. When this fellow’s family heard of Paul, they began to send books to him as well. Those books saved his life during those interminable winters.
Then one spring, when the snows melted and the poor Siberian residents slogged about knee-deep in mud, something extraordinary happened to Paul. During his first year in Shushenskoye he had taken a room—a corner in a damp barn—in exchange for tutoring the children of a peasant family. But the environment only exacerbated his lung condition. About that time a man and his daughter arrived in the village. Though exiles, they were obviously of some means, for they were able to rent a small cottage of their own. News of their arrival quickly spread in the small village, and when Paul heard he was excited. Most of the residents of the village were simple peasants with no interest in the outside world. What few learned men there were, such as the schoolteacher and priest, were only a little less dull than the peasants, and Paul suspected them of being informers. Thus Paul went to visit the newcomers at first opportunity, not only for the stimulating company they might provide, but also in hopes of somehow procuring a room in their cottage.
Gennadii Andropov appeared to be in his sixties, although the rigors of the journey east had left him looking much older. His shoulders were slightly stooped and he wheezed terribly, especially when excited. He had a mop of white hair and a matching beard. He was the picture of age and ill-health. But there was within him a smoldering fire of strength and life that his bright, lively eyes betrayed instantly. He loved to talk and laugh, even though both activities caused him much physical distress. He was a pleasant man, unpretentious and full of humor, and Paul was instantly comfortable in his presence. But he found it difficult to understand how such a person could be taken for a subversive.
The man’s daughter, Mathilde Gennadievna, was a different matter. Unlike her father, she did not immediately set Paul at ease. She was a few years older than Paul. Her hair was a rather drab brown, and her features were angular, emphasized rather than softened by her long neck on which they sat as if they were being served up on a platter. But if her features were like a meal, even if not a gourmet’s delight, they were nevertheless a spare, sensible fare, warm and tasty. Only her eyes stood out from this frugal feast, like a rich dessert—brown as chocolate, luminous as a flambeau. And she carried herself with such pride and dignity that in spite of her unglamorous physical features, observers, like Paul, were at once intrigued and drawn to her. He soon found that this prim, soft-spoken scion of womanhood could sting like a wasp.
He had brought a loaf of warm black bread from the wife of his peasant landlord.
“You are too kind,” Gennadii said.
“It is a malady this place is curing me of daily,” said Paul.
“So your enemies end up the victors after all,” Mathilde replied, a touch of challenge to her tone.
“What do you know of my enemies?” asked Paul, nettled at her insightful but presumptuous comment.
“Mathilde, our young guest would perhaps like some tea,” Gennadii said, then added with an affectionate wink at his daughter, “before you engage him in political debate.”
“Yes, Papa.” She nodded respectfully to both her father and Paul, then went to the stove for the tea.
“I am new here, of course,” Gennadii went on, motioning Paul to sit. “But one learns quickly to appreciate the small things in life. And, as much as you diminish your small act of kindness, Paul, it means a great deal to us. Why, a few more such acts could restore my faith in human nature.”
Paul replied with a doubtful shrug and a cynical snort, “I doubt that.”
“You would slight my father’s words?” retorted Mathilde, from where she was drawing tea from the samovar. Her voice was soft, but fight flashed from her eyes.
Paul winced as if he had been stung. But he realized his attitude hardly did this gentle man any justice.
“Forgive me,” he said quickly. “If nothing else, I fear this place is causing me to lose my manners.”
“That is just what the government wants, isn’t it? To force us to lose ourselves. It is the one victory they must not win.” Gennadii glanced at his daughter and her lips curved upward in approval.
“So it is true, then,” said Paul. “You are a revolutionary, Gennadii Nickolavich?”
Mathilde answered with passion in her voice. “My father is a kindhearted, peace-loving man who never had a subversive thought in his life.”
“I would not go quite that far, my dear,” Gennadii said. “I must admit at least one or two unkind thoughts toward the . . . ah, shall I say . . . establishment?” He smiled, and his eyes danced. “Mathilde, why don’t you tell Paul our story? I’m afraid my own breath is nearly spent.”
Mathilde spoke as she served tea. “My father is a writer,” she said. “He writes fiction, stories of Russian life, mostly. Nothing seditious, mind you—not even close.” She smiled toward her father and they exchanged a look of some shared memory. She continued. “I am the revolutionary of the family.” She paused as Paul registered his shock. “Have you known no women radicals?”
“I have,” answered Paul vaguely. “Were you in St. Petersburg?”
“We live, or lived, in Kiev. And there, I was arrested for distributing leaflets to factory workers.” She took a seat next to her father.
“And did your father write the leaflets?”
Gennadii chuckled at this, but his daughter answered indignantly, “Never! He was arrested before they even realized he was a writer—he was exiled with me simply because he was my father. If I had had other family, they would have been here also.”
“I am sorry for you both,” said Paul earnestly.
“It is a terrible world when a simple weaver of tales and an outspoken girl must spend the rest of their lives in exile,” said Gennadii. “And, though I must say better men than I have come this route, I do not know if there have been any better women.” He reached over and gave his daughter an affectionate pat on the arm. “But I am not bitter over my plight, Paul. Bitterness eats away at a soul until its final state is worse than the first.”
“But don’t you hate the government for what it did to you?”
“Hatred is another emotion that does no good. All that has happened has indeed awakened emotions within me, perhaps even begun to convert me to my daughter’s way of thinking—in some areas, at least. Change is needed. It must come. And if I were a young man, or at least had some vigor left in me and was not nearing the end of my days, I would devote my life to seeing that change came. But I would not let hatred or bitterness stop me; neither would I let it drive me. I would do it because it had to be done.”
“Sometimes I want to give it all up. It seems so futile, and the masses don’t appear to want our help anyway.”
“Does that change the need?”
Paul slowly shook his head, reluctant to agree, but sensing immediately the wisdom in the man’s words.
“I think you best be careful, Gennadii,” said Paul wryly, “or the constable may arrest you for agitation.”
“Imagine that!” chuckled the man.
After this initial meeting Paul spent every moment he could with the Andropovs. Before long he was invited to occupy the spare room in the cottage. His life was greatly changed by this growing relationship. Gennadii’s gentle wisdom and solid logic were a balm to him, working in and upon him to soften some of the jagged edges his hatred and previous associations had imprinted upon him. He began to see how the path of his former life had taken a terribly wrong detour, leading him down a road that not only was a dead end, but likely would end up destroying him. Some of his faith, if not in God, then at least in the godly virtues he had learned as a child, began to be restored to him. However, he did not in any way forsake his extreme ideals and his belief in change and in the necessity for a radical overthrow of the present government in Russia, but in these ideas he found a companion more in Mathilde than in Gennadii.
And in Mathilde Gennadievna he found more than a comrade in ideals. He also found a woman to love, and one who loved him with a completeness and devotion that boggled his mind. They were kindred spirits; they agreed on everything—and on nothing. They constantly debated, mostly about political issues, but sometimes simply about which path they should take on a hike or if the weather would permit hunting on a given day. But they thrived on these debates and admired each other the more for them.
No one was happier than Gennadii when, in the spring of 1888, they finally married.