32

Andrei met Stephan Kaminsky at the Smolny. They hadn’t seen each other since Andrei’s arrest in July, and the meeting was understandably tense. Only Andrei’s desire to get himself back into the good graces of the Party kept him civil.

“You look well,” said Stephan as they walked down a corridor to his office. “Gruenwald said you had pneumonia.”

“Yes. I guess I hadn’t regained my strength from my previous illness, then the time in prison—”

“Look here, Andrei, I hope you don’t hold that against the Party.”

“No, of course not. Why should I?” But it took all the discipline Andrei had not to confront Stephan with his worst offense—keeping the identity of Andrei’s family from him when he had amnesia. But it would not serve Andrei’s purpose to stir up grudges. This was the time to mend fences, not poke holes in them.

“Good.” They came to a closed door and Stephan paused. “Come on in and let’s talk. Perhaps we can see how best to use you in the new government.”

Andrei restrained a relieved sigh as they entered the office. It appeared as if he had succeeded in being reinstated. There were three desks in the small, rather austere room, none of which were at the moment occupied. Stephan led Andrei to the desk by a window, drew up a chair for him, then took for himself the chair behind the desk.

“So, what is your position in the government?” Andrei asked.

“I am Second Commissar, under Dzerzhinsky, of the All-Russian Extraordinary Commission to Combat Counter-Revolution and Sabotage, known by its acronym of Cheka.”

“What exactly is that?” Andrei didn’t like the sound of it, whatever it was.

“I suppose it is best described as a security police force. The task of putting down counterrevolution and securing our success is perhaps one of the most vital in the new government. Sedition and brutality by our enemies must be met with equal and decisive force. You cannot believe the heinous acts the bourgeois are perpetrating against us—sabotaging food stores, murdering and mutilating Reds, not to mention inciting discord among the masses. Our survival depends on our unequivocal ruthlessness.”

“Ruthlessness . . . ?”

“You always were a bit too squeamish, Andrei. But there can be no other way. We are trying to make a new world—a utopia, so to speak. Every day scores of decrees are issued from this office—that is, the Smolny. Every institution is undergoing dramatic restructuring. Private ownership of land has been abolished, and the banks have been nationalized along with private enterprises. Our entire justice system has been revamped. Women have been given equal rights with men. The power of the church has been greatly limited and all its lands—which amounts to an enormous quantity—have been confiscated by the state. Religious teaching in schools has been forbidden. Why, we have even adopted the Western calendar.

“So, you see, such changes cannot come easily, especially to the bourgeois who are most affected. All that we do is justified in the name of freedom. We must totally destroy the old world to prevent it from coming back to haunt us.”

“I see . . .”

“We are a communist state now. Marx is our model. We cannot leave behind any remnant of the old, if for no other reason than that it would show our weakness.”

“What about bread and peace, the rallying cries of the revolution?” Andrei had been reading the newspapers and knew about the changes Stephan was outlining. He also knew that the war continued, and hunger and privation were still rampant among the people.

“You must know that we have already increased the bread ration by half. Lenin has authorized raids all over the land and has found and confiscated tons of food stores, many that had been hoarded by the bourgeois for sale on the black market. As for the war, we cannot be expected to instantly clean up the mess left by the imperialist and bourgeois governments. The Allies have not recognized our government and have met all our efforts to include them in a peace initiative with silence. Trotsky, who is the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, has therefore entered into negotiations for a separate peace with Germany.”

“That will not make Lenin’s government popular with the world powers.”

“No, but at least it will show them that we are not a force to be reckoned with lightly.” Stephan shifted in his chair, obviously ready to move the conversation in another direction. “So, Andrei Sergeiovich, let’s talk about where you want to fit into the Soviet of People’s Commissars.”

“I assumed I would continue with my old duties at Pravda. Surely the new government is in need of a vital propaganda machine.”

“Indeed it is. But a man such as yourself might be better suited to a more—how shall I put it?—active role in the government. To tell the truth, I never have believed you well suited to the job of sedentary maker of pretty pictures.” This last word Stephan said with such disdain, Andrei barely could keep from rising up in defense. “I propose taking you into the Cheka.”

“I have no training as a policeman, Stephan.”

“Not a single man in the government has training in the jobs assigned them. We are learning by the seat of our pants. Already, I have picked up a great deal I can pass on to you.”

Andrei had hoped to secure his place in the new government in some mild, insignificant capacity such as his old job at Pravda. If he was thrust into an aggressive job like the Cheka, he might be forced to do things that conflicted not only with his newfound political stance but also with his sense of morality. However, he was just beginning to understand how naïve he had been. In order for him to be privy to the kind of intelligence necessary to save the tsar, he was probably going to have to worm his way into some security capacity. He should consider himself quite lucky that Stephan was proposing that very thing.

On the other hand, he knew Stephan, who had always been a little suspicious of his loyalty, was very likely testing him. He had to take care in his response. Stephan’s suspicions might be raised if Andrei was too eager. Moreover, Andrei did not want to do anything that would tarnish his morals. Somehow Andrei had to show interest in the proposal without making a solid commitment.

“It is worth considering,” said Andrei. “It would be rather difficult to sit in an office all day missing the real action. Still, I just don’t know if I am physically up to such a job. My stamina has been greatly reduced since my most recent illness.” Andrei was pleased with his ingenuity in his final statement. He could buy a lot of time by pleading his illness.

“We’ll start you off slowly.” Stephan smiled. “I have a small task I must perform this very day that could be an ideal initiation for you.”

“What is it?”

“Our revolutionary tribunal has recently tried and convicted an old adversary of ours.”

“Of ours . . . ?”

“Our old nemesis, Cyril Vlasenko.”

“I wondered what became of him.”

“The Provisional Government all but pampered and coddled those old tsarist leaders. While the Soviet government is trying to win world recognition, we are refraining from mass executions. But a special exception is being made in Vlasenko’s case. His crimes against the Russian people are so well documented, even those squeamish Americans would not protest his execution.”

“He is to be executed, then? Today?”

“Yes, and I’d like you to witness it with me.”

Andrei swallowed back all his distaste at this prospect. Here was the perfect opportunity to increase his credibility with Kaminsky. “What perfect timing!” Andrei said with enthusiasm. “I’m glad you said something. That man has been a thorn in the side of my family for years. I would gladly watch as justice is served on him.”

“I thought you might like that. We’ll do it at sundown. Until then, let me show you around here a bit and let your comrades know you are back with us.”

The cellars of the Butyrki Prison seemed especially dank and chilly as Andrei traversed its corridors on his gruesome mission. He tried to remind himself that of all people, Cyril Vlasenko deserved to die more than many. Not only for his spiteful crimes against the Fedorcenko/Burenin families. That alone was a staggering account—from his sadistic treatment of Uncle Paul, imprisoned as a youth in an Akulin jail, to his plots that financially ruined the Fedorcenko family. And who could tell how much Vlasenko was involved in the many other family tragedies. There was some hint that his plots had led to Sergei’s banishment to Asia, which eventually propelled him down the path to Siberian exile.

But there had also come to light evidence confirming his part in many national crimes as well. As head of the Third Division, he had been instrumental in sending scores of revolutionaries—many of whom were now in power—into exile or to labor camps. During the tribunal, a substantial number had witnessed to Vlasenko’s personal part in beatings, torture, and unjust executions of political prisoners. At least the Bolsheviks had given Vlasenko the benefit of a trial—a formality he had denied most of his victims.

Yet Andrei thought of his father’s journal and the many references in it to forgiveness. Sergei, whose life had perhaps been most harmed by Vlasenko’s evil machinations would have been the first to forgive the man. Andrei was somewhat comforted in the fact that he did not feel the depth of hatred and vindication he thought he might feel at this moment. Indeed, as he approached the room where the execution would be conducted, he felt deep loathing at what was about to transpire. He did not relish at all having to witness it.

At least, he thought, a greater good might come from Cyril Vlasenko’s demise. And perhaps even the old reprobate might be comforted knowing that his death was contributing in a small way to bringing about the rescue of his tsar. After all, Vlasenko was as staunch a monarchist as there was.

Andrei, Stephan, and a handful of other spectators took their places at the back of the room, a good twenty feet from where the victim would stand. Then, five minutes later, the prisoner was brought in. The last time Andrei had seen Vlasenko was at his gallery showing not quite four years before. Vlasenko appeared to have aged twenty years in those four. His skin was pasty, his eyes ringed with dark circles, and great folds of skin hung from his face due to weight loss that probably amounted to some fifty pounds. Andrei recalled Yuri saying Vlasenko had a serious heart condition. He did appear to be having difficulty breathing.

But there was a certain defiance in the old man’s eyes, especially as he glanced at the spectators’ area. Andrei tried to avoid eye contact, but their eyes did lock for an instant, and he knew Vlasenko recognized him. Andrei wished at that moment he could tell Vlasenko that he did not want to be there, that his only purpose was to bring about the rescue of the tsar. He wanted to say, “I forgive you, Cyril Vlasenko.” Instead, he had to stand there like Saul in the Bible, in essence holding the coats of the man’s executioners.

To Vlasenko’s credit, he waved away a blindfold and stood as straight as his old body could manage while he was tied to the post.

The head of the tribunal that had convicted Vlasenko stepped forward and read from a prepared statement: “In the name of the Soviet of People’s Commissars, this day the sentence of execution by firing squad will be carried out against one Citizen Cyril Karlovich Vlasenko for heinous crimes against the people of the Soviet and against mankind. Citizen Vlasenko, do you have any last words?”

With an unmistakable smirk on his lips, Vlasenko merely shook his head.

The tribunal head then nodded toward the six riflemen, who took their places in front of the prisoner and lifted their weapons.

Until that moment Andrei had not given a thought to the actual execution. He had not considered what it might be like to watch a man die before his eyes, nor how this might affect his particular aversion to blood. And it was too late now to do anything about it. He just prayed it would have no affect at all. That—

Suddenly gunfire rent the air. Had Andrei been prepared he might have closed his eyes and kept them closed until he could escape that terrible room. But before he could do so, or even turn away, he saw the body jerk violently before it drooped against its bonds. He also saw the blood spray from the wounds.

And he was absolutely powerless to prevent his immediate physical response. He stumbled back against the wall as if he himself had been shot. And the next thing he knew he was doubled over, losing the fine lunch of cabbage and sausages Stephan had given him earlier in the day.

Had he had any capacity at all to think, he would have realized he had destroyed his chances of ingratiating himself to Stephan, and that the entire purpose in watching the execution had been spoiled.

Only with the help of Stephan and a few of the other spectators was he able to leave the room. His legs were trembling so, they had to support him all the way outside and into a cab that took him and Stephen back to the Smolny. It was in the cab that Andrei realized he hadn’t spoiled his chances to help Daniel and Yuri after all.

Stephan was laughing at him, but in a good-natured way. “You are not the first man who has fainted at such a sight.”

“I didn’t faint,” Andrei said weakly.

“No, that is true—to your credit!”

“I’ve never had much of a stomach for blood.”

“This is only the first of many executions.”

“I thought you said there would be no mass executions because of world image.”

“It will happen eventually. It must. Remember what I also said about the old order being destroyed. Executions must be part of that. In fact it is our moral duty. Lenin has said that communist morality is what serves to destroy the old order that is exploiting the Proletariat. In doing this we are being morally and socially responsible. You’ll have to get over your weak stomach if you want to work for me.”

“Give . . . me time.”

“What is it they say, ‘the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’” Stephan laughed again. “Don’t worry, Andrushka, you’ll get another chance.”

Andrei wondered if that was a promise or a threat.