37

In 1913 Lenin said, “A war between Austria and Russia would be a very useful thing for revolution, but it is not likely that Franz Joseph, the Austrian Emperor, and Nicholasha will give us that pleasure.”

Shortly before that statement, the Bolshevik leader had moved to Kracow with the unofficial blessing of the Austrian government. It seemed he was being encouraged to be a thorn in the flesh of Russia’s tsarist regime. Clearly, the enemies of Russia were using the country’s internal and external foes in any way they could to undermine the tsar. And the Russian government was doing the same to their international foes by secretly backing Serbian nationalists to stir up dissention in Vienna. It was a political game, and Lenin was an expert player.

But it was more than politics that drew Lenin to Kracow. Lenin was a nationalist through and through, and he suffered greatly from homesickness for his beloved Russia. Kracow, in spite of the fact that it was part of Austrian Poland, was Slavic and as such held an ambiance similar to Russia. Lenin was delighted to be there, only an hour and a half from the Russian border, and incredibly, only an overnight journey on the express train to St. Petersburg.

Andrei, too, was glad his personal journey would only take him as far as Kracow. Andrei had desperately needed to get away from home, but he hadn’t wanted to be so far that home was unreachable. Yet by going to join Lenin, he was going about as far from home and his loved ones as possible—emotionally if not geographically. Yuri, because of the monarchist that he was, would be cut off completely. Andrei’s mother, as always, would try to be understanding, but she would cringe at the thought of her son consorting with such hardened radicals. Uncle Paul would be appalled and would blame himself that he hadn’t been able to steer his nephew away from the Bolsheviks.

And Talia . . .

It wouldn’t matter one way or the other to her. She would love him anyway—as a brother only, of course.

But he didn’t want to think of Talia. That’s why he was getting as far away as possible, from her and from all that threatened to spark a memory of her. It wasn’t working very well at the moment, but he hoped that as time passed and as he threw himself into the movement with all the passion and zeal they required, he would soon be too preoccupied to think of Talia.

He could have just as well gone to Paris and joined an artist’s colony there—he knew several artists who would have welcomed him. He supposed his present destination happened a bit as a whim, an impulse. He had moved out of his apartment the day after his fight with Yuri and had already made the decision to leave town, though he had no specific direction in mind. In the meantime he stayed with some Social Democrat friends and tried to get together money for a journey by selling off paintings. When news of Austria’s attack on Belgrade arrived, everyone was concerned about the troop mobilization and the certainty that they would be called up to serve in the army. As a group, they swore they would not serve in the tsar’s army, fighting an imperialist war for the ruling classes. Plans were bandied about for ways to leave the country in order to avoid the army summons.

Andrei saw no reason to wait for that. He had every reason to leave now. Another fellow, Semyon Ivanovich, was also anxious to leave the country, because the police were breathing down his neck for his part in several recent strikes. Semyon had procured forged travel documents and was going to Kracow to join up with Lenin. He invited Andrei to come along and was able to get the necessary papers for Andrei as well.

With war seeming so imminent, revolution might not be as far off as they had assumed. If Andrei joined up with Lenin, he might just be putting himself in the right place at the right time. It wasn’t hard for Andrei to ignore his doctrinal differences with the hardcore Bolshevik Party line. To him all the political rhetoric was secondary to action—and Lenin, if anyone, represented action.

But Andrei was not entirely insensitive to the repercussions of his actions on his family. Before leaving Petersburg, he posted a letter to his mother telling her vaguely that he was leaving the country for a while, not indicating any particular destination. He promised to keep in touch and begged her forgiveness for not having the courage to say good-bye in person. She would understand, and since Yuri talked to their mother far more than Andrei did, she probably had some idea about the situation with Talia.

The melancholy that had hung over him since leaving home began to lift as his train crossed the Russian border and was almost entirely replaced with excitement as they neared Kracow. In the Polish city, however, they met a great disappointment. Lenin was no longer there. Apparently his wife, Krupskaya, had taken quite ill, and they had been forced to travel to Poronino, where they hoped the healthful mountain air would help her. When her health only worsened, they went to Switzerland for medical treatment. After her recovery from the surgery there, they returned to Poronino.

Andrei and Semyon arrived at Poronino in the Carpathian Mountains in late July and were greeted by balmy warmth and spectacular mountain vistas. Luckily Semyon was acquainted with Zinoviev, Lenin’s close friend and right-hand man, so they were hailed as friends. Stephan Kaminsky, still Lenin’s bodyguard, greeted Andrei with some hostility but mostly with a hint of triumph that the frivolous artist had finally seen the light. They met Lenin briefly upon arrival, but later, Andrei was invited to have a personal interview with the Bolshevik leader.

“Kaminsky tells me you are Paul Burenin’s nephew,” said Lenin without preamble.

He looked exactly as Uncle Paul had always described him, except the receding hairline of his youth had turned into full-blown baldness on the top of his head. He had also aged—in fact, he looked several years older than his forty-five years. His slanted, squinting eyes were still sharp and held very little warmth.

“Yes, sir, I am. I would have said so myself except I was certain Kaminsky would inform you.”

“Tell me why you think I should accept you into my organization?”

“Because I believe in revolution and will do everything I can to help the cause.”

“The Bolshevik cause?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t accept your uncle’s prejudices? He did not try to dissuade you from the Party?”

“My uncle believed I had the right to choose my own path—”

“The path of betrayal?” Lenin’s eyes squinted even more, and Andrei thought a thin, sharp blade could easily shoot from them.

Andrei swallowed but held firm in his convictions against the powerful presence. “My uncle never betrayed you, sir—not in his heart. He always spoke highly of you and even now greatly admires you.” He wanted to tell Lenin that if he hadn’t been so dogmatic and exclusive in his beliefs, he would never have lost a good man like Paul. Instead, he did what he could to be conciliatory—after all, he didn’t want to harm his chances of working for the Party. “Sir, how else could I be here now, desiring to join you? My uncle was a great influence on me. He told me many times that he doubted revolution would happen in Russia without your leadership. I believe that, too, and that’s why I am here.”

“You are not even a Party member.”

“I know. I—”

“Kaminsky says you lack the kind of fervent loyalty that makes a good Party member.”

“At the time I was absorbed in my art career. Many artists are revolutionaries and have suffered under the weight of Imperial censorship. But the fact that I have a passion for this work doesn’t mean I can’t also have a passion for the cause. I’ve often used my talent to promote change in my country—from the time I was thirteen, when I first pasted a subversive poster on a public building, I sought to combine my two passions. I was put off from joining the Party by Kaminsky’s attitude that I could not do both. Where would the Party be without a means to communicate its ideas to the masses?”

“You make a good point.”

“I have contributed to several Party publications under the pseudonym of ‘Little Soldier.’”

“Really? That is you? I am familiar with that name.”

“I hope in a positive way?”

Lenin rubbed his chin, and a small light of amusement glinted from the slits of his eyes. “I would have a hard time accepting Burenin’s kin. But Malenkiy Soldat . . . that is another matter. We can use him—if he were willing to join the Party.”

“Show me how, sir, and I will do it immediately.”

The days passed idyllically in the picturesque mountains in the sleepy village. It almost made Andrei forget about the modern world and all its modern problems. But they were bound to catch up with him, even there.

Word reached the backwater village of Poronino at the very end of July. Germany, incensed over Russia’s mobilization and the threat it posed, had issued an ultimatum to the tsar to stand down. When Russia did not respond in the time limit given, Germany declared war on Russia. Two days later they also declared war on France, Russia’s ally, and marched on Belgium simultaneously with another declaration of war on that country. Then, a week after Germany’s declaration of war on Russia, Austria-Hungary also declared war on Russia.

This was unsettling news to the little group of Bolsheviks in the mountains. Beyond the obvious broader repercussions of war, the state of war between Austria and Russia now made Lenin and his comrades enemy aliens in a country at war with their country of citizenship. The Austrian Ministry of the Interior might have given covert consent to the presence of the Russians, but on the local level, Lenin and his friends were nothing more than aliens who spoke the tongue of Austria’s—and Poland’s—enemy. A war of such broad scope had not occurred in Europe since the days of Napoleon. No one was quite certain of what to expect—except perhaps the unexpected.

Andrei was in the village when he first sensed the air of hostility. A small group of women were standing at the village well as he passed on his way to the little house he shared with Semyon and several other single men in Lenin’s entourage. The peasant women cast Andrei unfriendly looks, then began conversing in their native tongue. Andrei could not understand the words, but he easily discerned by their tone and sneers that what they were saying wasn’t favorable. Then one of the women chattered something and spit into the dirt after shooting another piercing glance at him. He only understood one word they said, a word any revolutionary is quick to learn—police!

He headed as quickly as he could to Lenin’s cottage. Everyone had been worried, of course, and with good cause, since Russia was already poised on the borders of Russian Poland for an invasion into Austrian Poland. But somehow they thought they might be spared because they, too, were enemies of the tsar. They should have known that Poland’s peasant stock might not be able, or willing, to make such a fine distinction. Russians were Russians, and Poland’s perpetual enemies and oppressors.

When Andrei reached the cottage, only Krupskaya and her mother, who had lived with her daughter and son-in-law throughout their exile, were there. Krupskaya was resting on a daybed in the front room. Her mother sat in a rocking chair nearby, knitting, and it was she who had answered the door. The old woman smiled warmly at Andrei. She had taken a liking to Andrei, and when sweets came into the house, she always saw to it that Andrei had a sample.

She informed him that Lenin was off hiking in the mountains—his frequent occupation these days, during which he took voluminous notes of his thoughts and plans for the future. Krupskaya immediately sent Andrei after him.

Andrei hiked for a half hour before he met anyone—specifically Stephan Kaminsky, who had accompanied Lenin on the hike as his bodyguard. Stephan pointed Andrei toward a spot where Lenin was seated on a stump, reading on an overhang of rock that formed a lookout over a fabulous panorama of the mountains.

Andrei hated to disturb the man, who obviously was enjoying himself and having a rare moment of relaxation. So he told Stephan the problem. They had been hearing rumors for days now, and fear was being spread among the locals of dastardly deeds done by aliens in their community. One village priest had been warning his flock that enemy aliens were poisoning the water. But this was the first time anyone had specifically mentioned the police. Whether or not it indicated an immediate danger, it did seem it was time for the Russians to act. Stephan concurred that they had to inform Lenin, and by the time the information was communicated and the three hiked back to the cottage, over an hour had passed.

As they approached within a hundred feet, they saw horses tied to the porch rail—by the insignias on the saddle gear, the horses were identified as belonging to the local constabulary. The three men stopped, covered by a stand of trees and bushes.

“Looks like they beat us to it,” said Lenin.

“We can still get away,” said Stephan.

“And where would we hide in this area? I doubt the situation is serious enough to take to the woods to live off roots and berries until the danger passes. No, the worst they can do is deport us.” Lenin glanced at his young companions, not so much for approval, but to ensure that they were resigned to follow his lead.

But before they could make their move forward, a voice called from behind, “Halt! Don’t move!” A uniformed constable approached them, pointing an ancient rifle at them. “Do you live in that cottage?” he asked, staring at Lenin.

“Yes.”

“Your name?”

“Vladimir Lenin.”

“Come along with me—and don’t think about getting away.”

“That is the furthest thing from our minds,” Lenin said with confidence.

Andrei tried to take some encouragement from Lenin’s voice, but it was still unsettling to have a policeman aiming a weapon at him. Nevertheless, he obediently followed everyone to the cottage, determined that, no matter what, he would acquit himself honorably and prove once and for all that he was to be trusted.

The man with the gun yelled into the cottage, and in a moment another constable, the chief, came out. Krupskaya followed him, looking quite nervous and pale.

“Ilyich, they are searching our home!” she said, wringing her hands together.

“It’s all right, wife,” said Lenin, “we have nothing to hide.”

In truth, Andrei knew there were secret lists of addresses of Party members and other sensitive Party documents in Lenin’s possession—things that, in Russia, would have had them all hauled summarily off to the farthest reaches of Siberia. He had no idea what the Poles would think of them. But, in fact, the constable had not even noticed them. Instead, he was holding one of Lenin’s notebooks.

“Perhaps you have not heard the recent news,” said the constable. “But you are at this moment an enemy national in our country. Do you realize this?”

“Yes,” said Lenin. “But we have done nothing wrong.”

“I will make that decision. What are these?” He held up the notebooks—all written in Russian so, even if the man could read, he would not be able to decipher them, not to mention the fact that many of the entries had been written in code.

“Journals and the like,” answered Lenin.

“I know a little Russian,” said the constable. “And these appear to be written in some sort of code. Why would you do that with mere journals? I have had reports from many citizens of seeing you roaming over the hills, taking notes in these books—in all likelihood gathering information on troop deployments, geographical landmarks, and so forth to send to our enemies.”

“That’s ridiculous,” protested Lenin. “Those are simply my thoughts, notes for political articles I plan to write. Espionage? Bah!”

“And what about this—?” The constable now held up a pistol. “It was found among your belongings.”

“A little protection. What’s wrong with that?”

“You do not have a permit for it.”

“An oversight.”

The constable shook his head, not convinced. “I’m afraid I must place you under arrest for espionage.”

“What? That is the last thing I would do. I am as much an enemy of the imperialist tsarist regime as you.” That would have been the supreme irony, for Lenin to be shot as a spy for Nicholas the Second!

“This evidence says differently.” The constable gave his booty a pointed shake.

Stephan made a move, but the other constable stepped up quickly and thrust a rifle under his nose.

Lenin said with a glance toward Kaminsky, “We will go willingly. You will see soon enough that you have the wrong men.”

Only then did Andrei realize that all of them were under arrest. His eyes widened and his jaw went slack. All the years he had lived as an insurgent in Russia, he had never been arrested or even threatened! But the irony of an arrest outside of his oppressive country was hardly amusing. It was scary. He couldn’t muster even a hint of Lenin’s confidence.

Lenin said good-bye to his wife, who promised to get help from their contacts in the Austrian government. Lenin said they would be free within two days. Still, Andrei felt weak in the knees as the constable prodded them, on foot, back to the village.

“You’ve never been arrested before, have you, Andrei?” said Lenin. “I could tell by that strange mixture of fear and exhilaration in your eyes. There is nothing like the first time, knowing you are truly sacrificing for the cause!”

Andrei had felt something else in him besides fear, but hadn’t been able to identify it until Lenin spoke. Now he realized that it was exciting. He had achieved an honor that placed him on a level with his uncle and his father. He had achieved something that Yuri certainly hadn’t.