Colonel Aleksandr Kronstadt drew his horse alongside Major-General Durnov. Farther ahead, the road split off toward the land managed by the local zemstvo representative, Josef Peshkov.
The large manor house of wood and brick came into view. In front of the manor, the wide lawn suffered from summer’s end, and beneath a willow tree, a man-made pond beside a small creek offered white and brown ducks a refuge from the sun.
Off to the side of the wagon road stood a medium-sized bungalow with a large roofed porch with chairs and a table. Several shade trees loomed over the bungalow, which gave Alex the impression of an island in the middle of the sea. If his research over the past few days since arriving in Kiev was accurate, Professor Matvey Menkin’s bungalow was indeed an island, an isolated oasis of ideas in a sea of political and religious struggles. How long before the bungalow would be swallowed by the waves? Alex and Durnov drew up beneath the freckled shade of a linden tree while the contingent of conscripts moved farther to select an area to set up their gear. In the morning, Captain Suslov’s soldiers would travel on toward Warsaw to join up with Russia’s main forces.
Alex lowered his hat against the sun’s glare and peered toward distant plains. He took a moment to watch the shadow play of clouds upon the steppes. The sight evoked a vague longing in his heart. The waves of wheat, swaying in the breeze, hypnotized him. The rushing sound filled his ears, drowning out his soul’s troubled thoughts.
Land—magnificent land. He could congratulate the Bolsheviks on one thing: they knew how to bait the heart-longings of the peasant.
“Bread, peace with Germany, and land!”
The revolutionaries’ rallying call appealed to restless masses. To the common Russian, the arguments for war between various thrones were merely disagreements over which autocrat was awarded desirable lands and peasants to enlarge their rule. Royal cousins maneuvered within their grand palaces, deciding how many of their peasant-pawns they could afford to lose on the battlefield to achieve their gains.
But the peasant-pawns were stirring, wondering why they should spill their blood for the czar, the kaiser, the president of France, or the king of England. The peasant masses were hungry, weary, and angry.
All around him, he saw an uneducated mass without rights, who moved in lockstep.
Major-General Durnov removed his military headgear and wiped a hand over his bald head, his tufted gray brows lowering as he replaced his cap. He sighed, sounding like a disgruntled bear.
“How does the chief of secret police expect us to arrest the nephew of the wife of General Roskov?”
“I also wonder, sir. After what happened to Grinevich last night, he’ll demand his head.”
Durnov spat in the dust. “Grinevich will demand nothing.”
Alex looked at him for explanation.
“Grinevich will not be reaping his pound of flesh,” Durnov said. “He’s dead.”
The silence that followed was filled with the rush of the wind. Alex hid his groan. The charge of beating Grinevich would be changed to murder.
Durnov hunched his shoulders as he slouched forward, resting his forearm on the horn of his saddle. “My back will be the death of me yet … Well, Kronstadt, it is going to be worse for these Bolsheviks than I had first thought. I am most certain one of them will be made to talk. The Okhrana is adept at that.”
Alex tightened his jaw and remained silent. Not even Durnov knew that he had gone to the meeting last night disguised as one of the peasants.
“Peshkov’s son should cast dust on his head,” Durnov went on.
“There were several involved in the beating. Grinevich was hated by many in this village. More than one landed a good kick.”
“He had a bull head. I warned him in his younger years he was the sort of bully to die by a mob. I was right! But I tell you, the revolutionary leaders will hang for his murder. That will be Lenski and young Peshkov.”
“Why Sergei Peshkov? I have found nothing yet to prove he was behind the organized demonstration. It was Lenski who arranged to speak in the college square last night and Lenski’s rhetoric against the czar that fired up the peasants. And, sir, it is Lenski who is in hiding. Sergei Peshkov hasn’t made a run for it. He must feel he has nothing to hide.”
Durnov gave a heavy shrug. “Do not get me wrong, Kronstadt. Personally, I do not care that Grinevich is dead. He was not a pleasant fellow. But we have our orders from Petrograd. The Bolsheviks must be arrested. Do not forget Sergei is on file with us for distributing Iskra.”
“I interviewed many in the village. Lenin’s newspaper is not to be found.”
Durnov reached into his military jacket and pulled out a cigarette. He held it between his blunt yellow teeth, searching for a match. He struck it, protecting its feeble flame from the hot wind.
“Never mind the Bolshies for now. Begin with Menkin. What did you discover about this old Polish Jew?”
He kept his voice unemotional, acting the perfect military officer newly pressed into the secret police. How can I gain a transfer back to my regiment in the Imperial Cavalry? I would rather face Germans!
Alex pulled his notepad from inside his jacket and flipped it open.
“Professor Menkin arrived in Kiev two months ago from his apartment in Petrograd to work on a religious manuscript—”
“Possibly a front. What kind of religious manuscript? Rasputin again?”
Alex flicked an insect off his notepad. “No, quite the contrary. Its title is Messiah, Religious Philosophy or a King? Menkin arrived here in June and went straight to work on his research. His niece, Miss Karena Peshkova, has been working with him as his secretary, also aiding with the research. There’s no evidence of Menkin’s involvement with Bolshevik propaganda. He did not know Professor Chertkov, nor is his name on a list of Chertkov’s defenders. He was born—”
“What of Miss Peshkova? Did she know Chertkov?”
Alex leafed through his notebook, as though searching to renew his memory. “She took several of Chertkov’s history classes before she graduated the college. That was over three years ago. No trouble where she is concerned,” he added smoothly. “She has an ambition to become a doctor. She is trying to get admittance into the Imperial College of Medicine and Midwifery. She was refused for the third time just recently.”
“A woman doctor? What is Russia coming to?”
“She appears to be most intelligent, sir. I checked her college grades, and she received excellent marks.”
Alex tapped the end of his pencil on the notepad. He found it frustrating to have his mind fixated on Karena. He’d thought of her many times since Kazan but had fully intended to keep away from her. That is, until events had forced him to collect information on her family. He knew, for instance, or he should say suspected, a past relationship between Madame Peshkova and Dr. Zinnovy. The jeweled pendant Tatiana made so much about in Kazan must have been given by Zinnovy to Madame Yeva when she was a student at the college.
He also discovered Ilya Jilinsky was expected to marry Karena. Would her family see her married to the Polish peasant before he marched off into the upcoming war? Alex did not think so, as Ilya would be leaving with the other conscripts camped across the road.
“So Miss Peshkova shows a tendency against the standard role of women in Russia, and she also took a class from Chertkov,” Durnov said thoughtfully.
“She does not seem the type to involve herself with the rowdy Bolsheviks. Her mother attended the Medical College in Petrograd. It is natural for the elder daughter to carry on the tradition.”
Durnov turned his head and looked at him searchingly, smoking his cigarette. Alex tried to become unreadable.
“And the Polish Professor Menkin?” Durnov asked.
“He was born in Krakow of the Jewish Menkin family. He’s the older brother of Madame Peshkova. A few of the Menkins, including their grandparents, were gentiles from Finland. They were all loyal to the czar.” Alex flipped through his notebook.
“Ilya Jilinsky and his grandmother also live here. Both are from Warsaw—”
“Jews?”
“Yes. They occupy the bungalow year round. They’re related to Madame Peshkova through marriage, not blood.”
“Why are they outside the Jewish Pale of Settlement?”
Alex leafed the pages again, irritated. “They have renounced Judaism. They were baptized into the Russian Orthodox Church over a dozen years ago and attend St. Andrew’s with Josef Peshkov.”
As he and Durnov both knew, baptism into the Russian Orthodox Church allowed Professor Menkin and Madame Peshkova to escape state persecution and have more freedom to live as they wished, although Jews were still watched, whatever religion they claimed.
“Menkin is acquainted with the writings of the revolutionaries Lenin and Trotsky,” Alex went on. “However, I do not think he is a Bolshevik. He is known to dine with Miliukov when in Petrograd.”
Miliukov was one of the founders of the cadets, a group that favored a constitutional monarchy, such as Great Britain. Their name cadets was taken from the Russian initials of the Constitutional Democrats.
If Alex agreed in part with any movement to end the autocratic system in Russia, it would be the cadets. Another side of Professor Menkin he appreciated.
Durnov squinted off toward the bungalow. He drew on his cigarette. “What of his revolutionary work in Poland?”
So Durnov knows. Alex had toyed with leaving out that information but saw the danger of it now.
“Menkin’s politics in Poland were radical and nationalistic. He supported an independent Poland, free of Russia and Germany, which was the cause of his dismissal from Warsaw University. He attended a meeting held by a revolutionary-backed students’ group, and the government moved in and ordered the university to remove him.”
Durnov crushed his cigarette on the bottom of his boot. “That does not look good for him. One so intellectual should have been more cautious in his associations.”
“It does not seem likely either Menkin or Josef Peshkov would be involved in organizing a Bolshevik rally with Lenski,” Alex said.
Durnov pursed his lips.
“They would seek to influence Duma members and military officers,” Alex persisted.
Alex went on in a monotone, convinced he was digging the unfortunate professor’s grave. “Menkin spent two years in a Siberian work camp for his seditious writings while at Warsaw University. He then went to Petrograd, where he now resides. He writes for various publications in and out of the country. He has friends and connections in New York, and his essays are seen on a regular basis in a Jewish intellectual quarterly. None of his writings deal with Poland or the czar.”
Durnov’s saddle squeaked. “That will be Menkin now coming down the road. The young peasant must be Jilinsky.”
Alex surveyed the fair-haired Ilya Jilinsky who had paused to wait for Professor Menkin to join him before walking to meet them. Ilya appeared rather boyish, slender, and browned by the sun. The professor had straight shoulders and walked from the bungalow using a cane.
Alex would have liked to ride forward to meet Professor Menkin, but Durnov remained seated on his horse in the shade. It was a way to show superiority, to make them come to him.
Alex turned his full attention upon Professor Menkin, who stopped a short distance ahead and stood leaning on a cane, his loose-fitting peasant tunic flapping in the wind. He was far from being in his dotage. The deep-set eyes were intelligent and piercing beneath a swath of silver gray hair that fell across his tanned forehead. His jaw was square, his stance resolute.
“You are Professor Matvey Menkin, the uncle of Sergei Peshkov?” Durnov demanded.
“I am Professor Menkin, yes. Sergei is my nephew by marriage. What do you want with me?”
“Your business here in Kiev—what is it?”
Alex edged his horse forward. He saw Menkin measure him with a steady eye, and Alex liked the flicker of courage.
“I am a writer and a historian. I came for the summer to work on my manuscript, to be published in New York. If you have come to the Peshkov manor for supper, then this young lad here”—he nodded to Ilya Jilinsky—“will take you there. I believe the family will soon be prepared to spread a festive table before you, though I cannot vouch for the Madeira.”
Alex found a smile tugging his mouth as he glanced at Durnov. Durnov was blunt and businesslike, but he had never been a cruel man. There was little Durnov liked better than a good supper—though he had a reputation for preferring to wash it down with vodka.
Durnov sighed his regret.
“That is good, Professor Menkin, that is good.” His tough tone eased. “My soldiers will eat, and Colonel Kronstadt and I will wait for your brother-in-law, Josef. Unfortunately this is not a time for good food and social talk.” Durnov paused, and Alex shifted slightly in his saddle. “Chief Gendarme Grinevich is dead. Murdered by the stinking Bolsheviks from your village. I am under orders from the Okhrana to arrest Sergei Peshkov for beating and kicking Grinevich to death last night.”
The thunderous silence was sickening.