A summer of national and personal discontent was ending. Harvest was in earnest in the wheat fields, and the grass in the wide front yard was now shriveling beneath the Russian sun.
Karena walked along the wagon road, wrestling with her emotions. She wanted a long walk this morning with nothing more than the song of the field larks and the bright sun on her back. She neared the cutoff to the wide public road to the village. The harvest winds that blew against her were bidding farewell to so many things, reminding her that both earth and man were fatigued. The approaching winter would arrive with brutal indifference, smothering all in a vast, icy shroud.
The wind caught away her red hat, and she rushed after it. Horse hooves thundered against the road, and she saw Imperial soldiers riding toward her. She stepped back from the road, her hand holding to a rustic fence post where wildflowers persisted in defiant bloom. She waited.
Trouble, to be sure.
The dozen Russian soldiers rode down the road, slowing as they neared where she stood. Sergei had described them as czarist demons on horseback; it did them injustice. These were no ordinary peasant foot soldiers. All rode smart-looking horses and were led by a crack Imperial officer—
Colonel Aleksandr Kronstadt looked her way.
Karena drew in a breath and lifted her chin. He dismounted, tossed the reins to the rider beside him, and walked toward her, removing his gloves. Looking toward the bushes, he paused to retrieve her red hat.
She saw the same handsome features, the interesting green-gray eyes.
“Miss Peshkova.” He bowed lightly and with exaggerated fanfare presented her red hat.
Karena snatched it.
He leveled a look toward her that caused her flesh to prickle.
“You haven’t changed,” he said. “You’re exactly as I remember.”
“Indeed, Colonel Kronstadt? I’m sure I don’t know what that may mean.”
“A compliment, of course.” He glanced toward the wood-and-brick manor house, perhaps a hundred yards back, and then toward the golden wheat fields bending in the wind.
“Pleasant,” he said. “I like the swaying of the wheat in the wind.” His gaze returned to hers.
Karena stared back as coolly as she could manage. “Are you looking for someone, Colonel?”
His eyes narrowed. He flipped the back of a glove against his other palm. “Yes, I am, Miss Peshkova, but it will wait until this afternoon. I’m on my way into the village to report to Major-General Durnov, who’s arrived from Kiev. There was trouble last night with the revolutionaries. Your chief gendarme was attacked. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about it?”
She did her best to keep her gaze from wavering under his. So the higher authorities already knew. Policeman Leonovich must have sent a wire to Kiev to the Imperial officer in command, named Durnov.
Alex hadn’t expected her to know about the violence, for he went on, his voice casual. “I have several hundred foot soldiers and their captains about three miles down the road.” He gestured his dark head in the direction he’d come from. “They’re on their way to Warsaw to join up with the Russian army. I suppose you know Russia is at war? Our men and horses need to bed down for the night. We’d like to use Peshkov land across the road, behind those trees over there, where nothing is planted.”
Who would dare refuse the soldiers of Czar Nicholas II? That Alex even asked was unusual.
“Yes, by all means, Colonel. The unused and harvested areas are at the soldiers’ disposal. I’ll make mention of the need of food to my mother.”
“The soldiers are obliged. I suppose you understand why the commander in charge is here?”
Karena’s heart went heavy. She saw his alert gaze watching her response, but she remained silent.
“The army needs more soldiers,” he said without emotion. “I’m afraid your village will be missing most of its young men within a week.” He looked off toward the ripening wheat fields. “This isn’t going to help your father’s grain harvest. Calling up men now seems unfortunate, but the orders came from Petrograd.”
So then, now it is Petrograd … To her it would always be St. Petersburg.
Karena thought sadly of Ilya, Boris, and the rest of the young men she knew and nodded. She wondered if Alex was on his way to Warsaw, but she dared not show interest enough to ask. She had thought, from Tatiana’s last letter, that he was stationed at the Winter Palace, working with Major-General Durnov in the Okhrana.
His jaw flexed as he watched her. “Then I’ll be on my way to the village. I’ll be here a few days with Durnov to look into last night’s violence.” He nodded good-bye, turned, and walked to his horse, mounting with the ease of an experienced cavalry officer.
Karena, anxious at the turn of events, remained by the fence post, watching. He sent some men back to the main column with news of where they would make camp, then rode with two soldiers toward the village.
Troubled, she hurried back toward the manor house. Her mind was now on Sergei and Lenski and the ordeal that must surely be ahead. What Alex had communicated was telling beyond his carefully chosen words: the secret police were here to learn the details of Grinevich’s beating, and although he had not mentioned Sergei, she believed Alex suspected his involvement.
Karena hurried up to her bedroom to be alone for a few minutes in order to think through her dilemma. She was not there long before Madame Yeva’s stout voice dispersed her musings.
“Karena?”
Karena massaged her neck and face, trying to relax into her usual smile before she appeared before her mother.
She stepped out onto the wooden landing and leaned over the rail to look below. There must be no sign of dismay. She did not wish her mother to worry over the disappointment she’d received earlier that morning at breakfast—or to guess that she was with Sergei at last night’s meeting.
Madame Yeva stood between the kitchen and the front hall. Neighbors said they looked much alike, mother and daughter—golden haired, fair skinned, blue eyed—though her mother was a few inches shorter. Karena was also fairer, due to her gentile father. Madame Yeva attributed her fair appearance to maternal grandparents from Finland, which was now under the Imperial boot of the Russian czar.
“Come down, Karena. I need you to make a medical call.”
Karena hurried down the plain, scrubbed, wooden steps.
“Is it Anna?”
“No, not Anna.”
Madame Yeva waited with her shoulders held as straight as a Russian officer’s. Her expression did not reveal any concerns simmering in her heart, for all emotion was washed away with practiced indifference. Karena wondered at times if some incident in her past had hurt her.
Madame Yeva’s fingers were intertwined, hands resting against her striped medical apron. She wore a white cotton blouse with puffed sleeves, tight at the wrist, and a straight, ankle-length dark blue skirt. Her high-buttoned shoes were polished, though the heels showed signs of wear. The once all-golden hair had a liberal amount of gray in the braid wrapped around her finely shaped head. Karena could see lines of worry drawn, as though by an artist’s brushstroke, here and there on her face. She was forty-five now. She would have made an excellent doctor, Karena thought proudly, if only she’d been allowed to complete her training.
Madame Yeva made a brave attempt at a smile, but her faded blue eyes showed internal worry. I understand your disappointment, they seemed to convey.
Karena managed to return the smile. Yes, mother and daughter were alike. I am enduring my disappointment, her smile suggested, but please do not ask me to speak of it now.
Afternoon sunlight trickled through the wooden window slats. Karena watched her mother move briskly across the room to the walk-in closet where the medications and birthing supplies were stored. She unlocked the door and lit the small lantern she kept inside on a trestle table. The light revealed floor-to-ceiling shelves that in earlier times had been neatly filled with apothecary supplies in bottles, tins, and vials. Karena followed her inside and surveyed the precious, dwindling supply.
“Your Uncle Matvey’s gout is troubling him again. I’d like you to walk over and see him. Bring his medication. Let us hope it helps him this time. Tell Grandmother Jilinsky to stop feeding him the rich mutton pan drippings. Here is the dosage. It will be enough for three or four days. See that he takes the first dose while you are there, will you, dear?”
“You know how he hates to swallow these big tablets. He says they get caught in his throat.”
“Smear a bit of butter on the pills the way I showed you. They’ll go down much easier. Tell him I shall be over to see him in the morning on my way to Madame Olga’s. There’s something I want to talk over with him.”
Karena glanced at her. Talk over? Was it about her? She nodded and watched as her mother took an opaque bottle from the shelf, shook some pills onto her palm, counted them, and then placed them in a small white cloth. Her mother was obsessed with cleanliness, insisting the English nurse, Madame Florence Nightingale, had been right about the spread of disease in the hospitals. She recalled Dr. Zinnovy using his own soap and boiled water.
Yeva gathered the cloth at the top then tied it with a length of narrow ribbon from a roll that she kept on a wall peg. She wrote a note to herself on the ledger hanging there and then surveyed the shelves once more, shaking her head with apparent concern.
“I do not know what we shall do.”
Karena had grown up seeing her mother guard the medicine closet as though it housed the crown jewels of Czarina Alexandra Fyodorovna Romanova. Each year at the end of the summer it was always the same; her mother began the tedious process of making a resupply list before the long twilight of Russian winter.
“This may prove to be one of our worst years,” Madame Yeva was saying. “Everything will be needed for the war. I would not deny our brave soldiers anything.” She closed and locked the door, dropping the key into her pocket. “Even now, the simplest things are becoming scarce. The supplies you brought in from the warehouse two weeks ago were lacking quinine and bitterroot. I sent off to Moscow for more. I wonder if we will get them.”
Karena slipped the tablets for Uncle Matvey into her skirt pocket and turned to her errand when the sound of running footsteps came up the front porch and hesitated outside the door.
Karena’s nerves clenched. The large manor house grew still and strained with expectation.
The front door opened, and Natalia stood in the doorway.
She widened her eyes expressively and looked from Karena to their mother.
“We are having company tonight, Mama. Soldiers—Imperial soldiers.”
Karena bit her lip. She was sure she knew who they would be.
Natalia leaned in the archway of the open door, placing a palm on her heart, drawing in a deep breath, as though saving the worst news—where she was concerned—for last.
“And Boris has been conscripted into the army—just as we expected. The soldier knocked on his door just a short while ago with orders. He leaves tomorrow with the company of soldiers that just arrived. He’s going to Warsaw. The captain told Boris they need a veterinarian at the front. The officers are coming home with Papa to supper!” She entered the house and slammed the door, causing Madame Peshkova to raise a palm to her forehead.
Natalia continued excitedly. “The younger officer is Colonel Kronstadt, he’s at the school now—asking questions of Papa.”
Asking questions! Karena glanced at her mother to see her reaction.
Madame Yeva looked calm, as usual, refusing to be caught up in Natalia’s emotions. “That is no way to enter a room, Natalia,” she chastened.
Natalia looked abashed and disappointed that her stunning announcement failed to have a greater impact. “Sorry, Mama, I have been running.”
Madame Yeva continued mildly, “Do remember that you are a lady now, Natalia. You will soon be married.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Karena suppressed the grin that tugged at her mouth.
“What is this about guests for supper?” Madame Yeva asked. “Sit down and explain yourself.” Their mother’s emphasis on guests, rather than on Imperial officers who were there to ask questions, was typically hospitable.
Natalia lowered herself into the faded brown chair, then folded her hands and repeated her news like a child for her teacher.
“I was on my way home with Madame Olga when we happened to see Boris across the market square. He had brought in bins of corn to barter and sell.”
Karena could see that Natalia had not deceived their mother about a chance meeting with Boris. What Karena wondered was how Natalia had managed to slip away from the widow to talk to Boris. Madame Olga was of the gentry class, and Boris’s father was a peasant who had done well. Because of this, he had been able to afford having Boris attend the Russian Orthodox Virgin of Kazan school. Boris, unlike most peasants, could read and write and had excelled in his studies to become a veterinarian.
“And suddenly I saw Papa across the street at the college. He was with an Imperial officer who looked familiar. And whom should he turn out to be but Tatiana’s fiancé, the colonel! Papa noticed me and called me over. He hastily wrote this.” She produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to Madame Yeva. “He told me to bring it to you at once. He also said to tell Aunt Marta about feeding two, possibly three, officers who are coming for supper.”
Alex was asking Papa questions! Karena’s heart raced with fear. Why would he single out my father? Alex and Durnov must be suspicious about last night.
Madame Yeva took the paper and walked to the window, where the light was brighter.
Karena exchanged urgent glances with her sister and whispered, “Did you see Sergei?” Is our brother in trouble with the secret police? her gaze inquired.
Natalia shrugged and crossed herself as she looked anxiously in the direction of one of the Orthodox icons displayed in the red room.
Karena did not follow Natalia’s lead and cross herself. The tradition used so often by Natalia and Aunt Marta had lost meaning. Karena wasn’t sure what she truly believed. Was she a Jew? Was she a Russian Orthodox Christian? Was she both? Rituals were many and varied, but they did nothing to change her heart. Knowledge is what I need, knowledge of the true God and not merely religious traditions.
Unlike Papa Josef and Aunt Marta, her mother held no sincere interest in the Orthodox Church of Holy Russia. Yeva had been raised in Jewish orthodoxy, but she had given up her Torah and her “Jewishness,” as she put it, to marry Josef Peshkov. She attended the Russian Orthodox Church with the family and was considered a Christian by her friends in the village. Aunt Marta, however, complained that Yeva did not cross herself enough.
“No wonder we are born unto afflictions,” she often said. “The Virgin notices, Yeva.”
“If I hadn’t consented to baptism,” Yeva had once told Karena, “I could not live outside the pale, and during pogroms, the mobs would think nothing of burning down your father’s home and fields.”
Karena remembered the time she had first understood what it meant to be a Jew in Russia and Poland. She was frightened and angry to learn that there were only certain areas in Russia where Jews could live, go to school, and attend synagogues. Even then, there was risk of sudden Cossack raids. The soldiers or armed citizens would come bursting into the Jewish areas to beat, loot, and rape. The pogroms occurred frequently, with almost any excuse. Sergei, with sarcasm in his voice, had once said, “They have their pogroms like they have their special religious holidays. It is a wonder the Russian Orthodox Church doesn’t have Persecute-a-Jew Day.”
Recently, with assassination attempts on members of the czar’s government, the hatred against Jews had increased once again. The autocrats blamed the factory strikes and violence of the Bolsheviks on the Jews, who were all Bolsheviks, according to the propaganda. “The Jews control all the money in Russia and Europe. They are plotting to take over the world and run all the banks.”
It infuriated Karena. For every rich Jew, there were ten gentiles who were just as greedy and godless.
Their mother didn’t share Natalia’s excitement about dinner guests. She lifted her fingers to massage her forehead. The sight brought a surge of sympathy to Karena. She watched as Yeva read the message, wondering what her father had said.
Madame Yeva sat down slowly in the nearby chair. The color faded from her face, leaving a sickly pallor. Karena went to her side.
“What is it, Mama?”
Madame Yeva shook her head and quickly folded the paper, stuffing it into her apron pocket. She drew back her shoulders.
“Is it the soldiers?” Karena asked, daring to persist, noting her voice was tense. “I saw them this morning. They arrived early on the road. They requested land on which to camp and food for their soldiers.”
Yeva looked up at her. “You said nothing about it at breakfast. You should have mentioned this to your father and Sergei.” She stood.
Karena tried to sound casual. “It was after I left the table, Mama. After Papa told me about the letter from St. Petersburg—Petrograd. I went out for a walk …”
Yeva caressed her daughter’s arm and moved over to the window again. She tapped her pince-nez against her wrist and stared out thoughtfully. Again, Karena exchanged worried glances with Natalia. Natalia didn’t know about last night, though she did know Sergei secretly attended Bolshevik meetings.
Natalia had sobered, but excitement remained in her eyes. “Do you think the officers coming here with Papa have anything to do with Policeman Grinevich being attacked last night by revolutionaries?”
Madame Yeva turned sharply toward Natalia. “Who told you about Policeman Grinevich?”
Then her mother knew as well. Josef must have mentioned the ugly matter in his message.
“Boris told me. The news is all over town.”
Madame Yeva turned toward Karena. “Did Colonel Kronstadt speak of Policeman Grinevich to you?”
“He was on his way to the village to meet a Major-General Durnov of the Okhrana,” she admitted quietly.
“Colonel Aleksandr Kronstadt will soon become engaged to your cousin,” Madame Yeva said in passing. “We will have to wait and see. His presence may be to our benefit. Let us hope so.”
Aunt Marta came into the room from the kitchen. She had little of her younger sister Zofia’s outward beauty. Marta was tall, with the same blue-black hair. “Did I hear you mention guests, Yeva?”
“Colonel Kronstadt is coming,” Natalia told her.
“The chief gendarme Grinevich was attacked last night by outside revolutionaries,” Madame Yeva said. “Imperial officers will be here for dinner.”
Outside revolutionaries? Karena glanced at her mother. Calling those involved last night outsiders was deliberate, Karena thought. Did her mother guess the truth?
Yeva paced. “Sergei will get us all into trouble. ‘Whoever guards his mouth and tongue keeps his soul from troubles.’ ”
Karena recognized the words from the book of Proverbs.
“We will receive the officers with honor and feed the foot soldiers, as requested. We have no choice.” Madame Yeva looked at each of them, confirming her instruction.
Natalia cast Karena a smile, apparently far less concerned over the purpose behind the visit than the meeting itself. “It could be entertaining,” Natalia suggested. “Wait until we write Tatiana about how we had Alex to ourselves for an evening.”
Karena was aware of more serious implications. This would not be a social call, as her sister wished, but an interrogation into their whereabouts last night and any connections they may have with the Bolsheviks. She and Sergei would need to watch every word if they were to keep their lives. One slip, and they would be arrested and hauled to Peter and Paul prison for further questioning. Fear hovered like a hungry hawk, menacing her every move. God of Abraham, help us, she prayed. Then, uncertain which faith was appropriate, she added, Jesus, have mercy, amen.
“So. Now I am a miracle worker?” Aunt Marta complained. “Am I Rasputin the starets that I am able to feed them? How many? Three? Four? A dozen?”
“Three,” Yeva said. “But there will be foot soldiers as well. Mush will be good enough for them, and maybe some cabbage soup.”
“They say there are three officers. Who can believe it until they walk in? The hens, they are barren, I tell you. The hens, they do not lay eggs enough to feed so many. For breakfast, I had hardly enough for Josef and Sergei. And now am I also to feed at least three Imperial officers?” Aunt Marta crossed herself. “They will be starving. They always are. What am I to do?”
“Let them eat cake,” Natalia quipped.
Aunt Marta cast her a scolding glance.
“Natalia, do be serious,” Madame Yeva said.
“Don’t mind her,” Karena said lightly. “She has been studying the French Revolution.”
“Revolution? What about hens? I will need eggs, Yeva,” Marta insisted.
Karena wondered why this summer had opened the door for pessimism and discontent in so many hearts. Even the hens had become a subject of hopelessness for Marta.
“Then we will make cabbage soup,” Yeva suggested absently, still pacing and rubbing her forehead.
“Oh, Mama,” Natalia groaned. “Peasant food! Where is our social pride? And with Tatiana’s handsome Colonel Kronstadt here? I will blush when next I see her if we serve him cabbage and onions.”
“I am most sure this will not be the social call you imagine, Natalia. And you have grown spoiled. Cabbage soup on the table of the hungry would bring praise to the saints.”
“But peasant food, Mama! And for the czar’s Imperial officers? Colonel Kronstadt is the son of Countess Shashenka.”
“Imperial officers or peasants—who cares?” Aunt Marta said. “They are all trampling beasts, but one thing I know,” she said and tapped the side of her head. “Russian officers of His Imperial Majesty expect many eggs and much bread. And vodka. I expect they will want butter these days too. Who can please such men? I do not feel these Imperial servants of the czar will appreciate my special cabbage soup, though I admit my onions add a special zest. Ah well. I shall do my best,” Aunt Marta said, turning her shoulder toward them. “It is all the czar can expect of me, some eggs. But”—she shook her finger toward Natalia, who smiled fondly at her—“there will be no cake.”
Natalia jumped to her feet. “Oh, but we must have little cakes. For Boris, if not for the czar’s officers.” She looked pleadingly from Marta to her mother. “I will not see him for a long time!” she pleaded.
“Then you persuade the hens to lay me six more eggs,” Aunt Marta told her. “I cannot make cakes without eggs.”
Madame Yeva held up her hand to show the discussion must end. “Do what you can, Marta.”
“We can borrow eggs from Uncle Matvey and Grandmother Jilinsky,” Karena suggested. “They usually have more than they need. I am on my way to deliver his medicine. I shall ask.”
“Yes, why did I not think of it?” Aunt Marta said as she headed back toward her kitchen. “I lack adequate time to prepare this meal, so hurry, Karena,” she called over her shoulder. Soon pots and pans rattled, and the prized family glassware tinkled precariously. Karena and Natalia exchanged glances and held their breath. Thankfully, the glassware that was to be shared between them when they married remained unbroken.
“Natalia! I need your help,” Aunt Marta called, and Natalia went to the kitchen.
When they were alone again, Madame Yeva hurried to Karena. The pallor on her high cheekbones was a warning.
“Your brother—”
Her mother tried to make her voice sound normal, but the attempt was unsuccessful.
Your brother. It was always Sergei. Sergei, who had once again managed to bring heightened concerns to the family.
“Sergei is with Ilya in the fields. Go to him. Tell him to come home at once. It is his father’s command. It is most important.”
The dismay in her mother’s eyes confirmed Karena’s worst fears.
“And Policeman Grinevich?” Karena asked in a low voice.
Madame Yeva closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. “He has broken ribs and a concussion.”
Karena shuddered, remembering.
“The attack last night was most bitter,” Madame Yeva whispered. “I’m desperately afraid Sergei will be blamed. Grinevich may identify Sergei. This is your father’s chief fear.”
Karena’s mouth went dry. Her heart beat faster, and her stomach felt sick. He was there. And so was I.
“Let’s hope the men involved wore masks,” Madame Yeva murmured to herself. “They do when they beat someone—if it is planned. It’s all horrible. They must have planned to get Policeman Grinevich.”
She looked at Karena a long moment. “There was a full moon last night,” she said thoughtfully. “Let us hope Sergei was not there, but I have no such confidence, Karena. We both know him.”
Karena bit her lip. I am merely keeping back what will bring her more pain. Dr. Zinnovy warned me to keep silent. If anyone understood the risks, it was Dr. Zinnovy. In this situation she would follow his advice.
“Mama,” she whispered, “tell me, please, what was in the message Natalia brought from Papa? What did he say?”
“Policeman Leonovich telegraphed the authorities in Kiev last night after the attack on Grinevich. There was already a company of soldiers riding this direction on their way to Warsaw. Your father expects more arrests.”
More arrests. Fear jumped to Karena’s throat. If they questioned Sergei, what would he say? Could he convince them he was not there? Would he even try? And what about herself?
“And now some of these very soldiers will billet here on Peshkov land,” Madame Yeva said. “Matters are turning severe. Your papa is very worried.”
“Then the officers are coming here to interrogate us?”
“Most assuredly, they will ask questions. Your father wants Sergei prepared to deny he was at the meeting last night. At any and all costs.”
“Have they arrested anyone else? anyone who may have seen who was at the meeting?”
Madame Peshkova’s lips tightened. “It is too soon to know, but we must take precautions. Josef has a plan to try to protect Sergei. I can tell you no more now. But all this is very serious, and your father may pay a heavy price.”
Karena looked at her for a horrified moment. She nodded in silence, then hurried into the front hall, anxious and uncertain. She caught up her blue headscarf from the hall table, intent on finding Sergei. Afterward she would go to the bungalow to tell Uncle Matvey the dark news.
A plan to protect Sergei … What could it be?