68

Cyril’s patience was growing thin. Things were simply not going well.

The release and pardon of Sergei Fedorcenko was enough to sour Cyril for life. Those rascals always managed to get the better of him! How did they do it? Did they have some kind of guardian angel looking over them?

In addition, he had to face the disheartening realization that Basil Anickin might not get to Gapon before the big march on Sunday—tomorrow!

Drat that Anickin! But Cyril Vlasenko knew it was hardly fair to blame Anickin entirely for the fact that Gapon was still alive. The priest had been a slippery devil these last several days. Gapon was keeping an extremely low profile lately, and even when he did appear in public, he was better protected than the tsar himself, constantly surrounded by his bodyguards.

Gapon knew he was a marked man.

Warrants had been issued for his arrest, but they had been denied on the ground that the priest’s arrest would only worsen the situation. Besides, no one could get close enough to the man even to arrest him.

But Anickin had better do something soon. If the workers’ march wasn’t stopped, Cyril had no doubt that he, himself, would be the prime scapegoat for whatever the march brought.

What was taking Anickin so long? True, he had only recently received his explosives, but he had known the importance of getting the job done quickly. Cyril was beginning to wonder if the fellow could be trusted. He had known Anickin was deranged all along, but he felt it had been worth the risk, considering that the lunatic was probably his best hope for eliminating Gapon. If Cyril was wrong . . . well then, he had just given a crazy man enough explosives to blow up half the Winter Palace.

Cyril just couldn’t think of that now. But something had better happen soon or he was going to pull Anickin in. Vlasenko’s nerves couldn’t take much more of this.

Cyril might have to resign himself to the fact that neither he nor anyone else would be able to stop Gapon’s planned march on the Palace. Fullon, the mayor of Petersburg, had telephoned Gapon in an attempt to talk him out of it, but the priest wouldn’t even speak to him. The best Cyril could hope for now was that the march came and went without incident, forcing Gapon’s demise by his own ineptitude.

Failing to halt the march, the ministers met that afternoon in an emergency meeting to prepare a plan for dealing with the situation. Cyril attended the meeting. All were present except Witte. Cyril wondered if Witte had been purposely ignored because the others feared he would side with the workers. More than likely, though, the pompous idiot was staying away in order to distance himself should something go wrong. The conniver!

The ministers discussed the deploying of troops in the city and the importance of keeping the marchers away from the Winter Palace. Thousands of troops from as far away as Pskov had already been called in. The tsar, of course, would be nowhere near the Palace; he had returned to Tsarskoe Selo immediately after the Epiphany service.

Any benevolence the ministers might have felt toward the workers dissipated when the Minister of the Interior showed the group a letter he had intercepted—from Gapon, intended for the tsar.

Don’t be deceived by your ministers, it had declared. They are lying to you about the true state of affairs in Russia. They don’t want to see the people rise out of the depths of poverty. But the people know that Your Majesty would help us if you knew the truth. We have faith in you! So, we have decided to come to you tomorrow at the Winter Palace at two in the afternoon. Fear not to stand before your people and hear our petition. You will not come to harm.

The man had gall. Gapon had indeed gotten much too big for his cassock. Thank God the tsar would never see the letter.

The final topic on the ministers’ agenda was the question of when they would inform the workers that the tsar was not in the city. No decision was made. It was probably too late, anyway.

During the night, gusts of frigid wind blew in from the Baltic. Snow swirled in the streets of the city. It was no night to be outside, but a soldier had no choice in these matters. Misha had been transferred from his duty at Tsarskoe Selo to assist in the bolstered patrol of the city. A few days ago three thousand troops had been present in St. Petersburg; now that number had more than tripled. Over ten thousand troops, including Cossacks, along with thousands of police—all to keep order for a peaceful workers’ march.

Warming his hands over a drum fire, Misha turned down the vodka that was passing freely among the troops. They were cold and bored, and even they did not expect tomorrow’s events to require more of them than their stoic presence. The soldiers got drunk; they danced and sang. But Misha could not indulge in the night’s revelry. He didn’t like the look of what was about to happen. It reminded him too much of something in the past.

Khodynka Field.

It had started as a peaceful gathering of common folk—and ended in disaster. Why couldn’t the leaders learn from such things? Misha hadn’t yet figured out just what could be learned, but there had to be something. Sergei would know. There was probably no relation at all between the two events, but Misha could not get Khodynka out of his mind. And a knot formed in the pit of his stomach that would not go away.

Misha did not pretend to know or understand Father Gapon’s designs, but Sergei had faith in the man. No matter what he intended for Sunday’s march, and regardless of how peaceful he wanted it to transpire, it seemed that with such a forceful military presence there could only be trouble.

Gapon smoked several cigarettes and drank a glass of tea, but he could not eat. His throat was raw from all the speeches. Even away from the crowds, in the flat of one of his workers, he could not relax. There had been another meeting that night; he hadn’t gotten away from it until quite late, and he was exhausted. But there were last minute preparations to attend to.

The leaders of tomorrow’s various contingents wanted a final blessing from the priest. Six columns of marchers would be originating in various parts of the city. They would begin at different times, depending on their distance from the city center, with the farthest having about ten miles to traverse. The times were synchronized so that all the columns would converge on the Palace Square at the same time. Gapon had given detailed descriptions of the routes to the police. He was determined to keep this within the law. The marchers didn’t expect trouble, but they were nervous anyway. The increased military presence hadn’t gone unnoticed.

At the last minute, Gapon told the leaders to discourage women and young children from joining the march. As much as Gapon wanted to believe that tomorrow’s event would be peaceful, a gnawing fear persisted in him.

Finally, long after midnight, Gapon went to bed, and at last fell into a restless sleep.

Sergei returned home around eleven. Daniel had gone with him to the meeting with Gapon, and afterward he rode with Daniel back to his boardinghouse, then took the same droshky back to his own home. The flat was quiet and dark when he arrived. Everyone had gone to bed.

Sergei was quietly tiptoeing down the hall when a footstep behind him caused him to stop.

“Papa,” said a soft voice.

Sergei turned to find Andrei, and even in the dim light, Sergei could see his son had a solemn expression on his young face.

“You’re up late, Andrei.”

“I didn’t want to miss you.”

“You wanted to talk?” When Andrei nodded, Sergei said, “Let’s go sit in the kitchen so we don’t disturb anyone.”

They sat at the table and Andrei hurried into his concern without further preamble. “I want to go on the march tomorrow, Papa,” the boy said earnestly.

“I don’t think it will be appropriate for children to be present, Andrei.”

“Papa, will I always be thought of as a child just because I am the youngest?”

“Son, this is serious business, not a lark.” Somehow Sergei sensed he didn’t have to say that to Andrei, but he was anxious to think of some deterrent to his son. Everyone firmly believed this would be a peaceful event, but the presence of the troops was disturbing nevertheless.

“I know that, Papa. Haven’t you noticed that I truly believe in freedom? I’ve listened to students at the university, and I’ve read things, too. Sometimes everyone jokes about the political things I say, but I think I am a revolutionary, Papa, like Uncle Paul. And I’m even more so now since the injustice done to you.”

“Son, I’m sorry if I have made light of the things you feel. I suppose I never realized how deeply you felt them. I will try to be more respectful in the future. But, Andrei, one thing troubles me about what you’ve said, and I may as well mention it now. I don’t want you to follow the path of a rebel out of revenge for me. Injustice was done, of course, but remember, too, that it was the tsar who pardoned me.”

“I’ll try to. But a tsar sent you away, and a tsar pardoned you—so it seems to me that only evens the score.”

“Still, he is our ruler, and that is what tomorrow’s march is all about. Father Gapon is loyal to the tsar above all else.”

“I don’t hate the tsar, Papa. You taught me not to. That’s why I’m asking to be part of this. When I grow up, I want to be able to say that I marched with the men who brought freedom to Russia. Please, Papa! Let me walk beside you.”

“All right, Andrei, you can come. But you must stay with me the entire time.”

A huge grin replaced Andrei’s solemnity, and a knot formed in Sergei’s stomach. This was his baby, Anna’s baby. Yes, he was almost as tall as Yuri, and certainly huskier, but it still was not easy to let him grow up. Perhaps inevitable, but never easy.