It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon, and Colonel Aleksandr Kronstadt had not arrived at the bungalow to question them. Karena was emotionally spent and felt that she must take her mind off the situation or go mad.
“Uncle, if you’re not going to use your office now, I’ve some work to do on your manuscript.”
Matvey reached for a book of poetry on the shelf, took out his pipe, and crossed his long legs, wincing. He settled back with his coffee. “My office is yours.”
“Oh! Poor Uncle. I forgot!” She reached into her skirt pocket and brought out the medication Madame Yeva had sent her over with earlier in the day.
“Another horse pill?”
“If we coat it first with butter, it will slide down very nicely.” She smiled and went to the kitchen. She returned with a small dab of butter in a spoon. When she left him, he was looking dubiously at the large tablet he held between thumb and forefinger, while holding the spoon in his other hand.
Karena entered the small room connected to his bedroom and faced the cluttered desk and two chairs, one of them beside his overcrowded bookcase. Several thick research books lay open on the table. His typewriter sat amid a confusion of manuscript papers and other books, several of which Karena knew to be of rabbinical origin: writings on messianic hopes or the refutation of such hopes. The Old Testament, the Tanach, was there, along with the Talmud, which was Jewish history and commentaries written by ancient rabbis. Uncle Matvey had noticed that, for some reason, all the Jewish commentaries referred only vaguely to the coming of a personal Messiah.
Why? she wondered, drumming her fingers. She bowed her head in a short prayer:
God of Abraham, open my eyes, for I want to see. I do not want to be deceived. If Jesus is the promised Messiah, I want to know, and if he is not, I want to know. Amen.
Beside the Scriptures was a stack of letters from Jewish organizations. A Russian New Testament was there as well, and she saw that Matvey was deeply involved in a study of the gospel of Matthew. She saw a verse underlined: “Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and bear a Son, and they shall call His name Immanuel … God with us.”
The letters from the rabbis were in response to Uncle Matvey’s question, “If the Messiah were to come in 1915, how would you recognize him?” Karena had typed the dozen or so letters that she had then mailed to Basel, London, and New York. Each rabbi had answered, but she was disappointed to see their lukewarm responses. “Do not stir up more trouble for the Jews,” one of them wrote back. And another, “Do you intend to reinforce the teaching that we are ‘Christ killers’?”
Karena shivered with dread.
Out of a dozen or so letters, only one rabbi, an Orthodox Jew, believed in a personal Messiah. And while the rabbi gave his opinion on the matter, he did not refer to even one passage of Scripture.
Karena frowned, glancing up toward the window. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. Even the World Zionist Organization, begun under Theodor Herzl, was secular.
If there was no personal Messiah, then where had the idea come from?
Karena gathered a stack of Uncle Matvey’s handwritten manuscript pages and sorted through them. Her interest was snagged at once. He had painstakingly written out reference after reference of promises and teachings about the coming of the Messiah from the Old Testament, beginning with Genesis, and added his own notes in parentheses:
“Messiah is first mentioned in Genesis 3:15 as the seed of the woman. Notice that it is not the seed of the man, but of the woman. Here is the first suggestion of the virgin birth. God said, ‘I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her Seed; He shall bruise your head—(judgment of Satan)—and you shall bruise His heel.” Then Matvey had scribbled: “(This is our Messiah wounded for Adam’s fallen offspring).”
He had found a New Testament verse describing the fulfillment. She typed the reference, Galatians 4:4–5, then struggled to find Galatians. At last she compared it to Uncle Matvey’s notes: “But when the fullness of the time had come, God sent forth His Son, born of a woman (the seed of the woman), born under the law (He came when Israel was under the Law given to Moses), to redeem those who were under the law”—and here Matvey had underlined—“that we might receive the adoption as sons.”
Amazing, Karena mused. She typed the next reference to the Messiah. “The promised Messiah is also of the Seed of Father Abraham in Genesis 22:18, and its fulfillment is mentioned in Galatians 3:16: ‘To your Seed’ (Abraham’s), who is Christ.”
“Another very early reference to the Messiah in His redemptive work,” Uncle Matvey wrote, “was in the offering of Abel in Genesis, in the bringing of a lamb from the flock. Redemption was always accomplished by a substitutionary blood sacrifice, and around seven hundred years before Messiah was born of the virgin Mary, Isaiah the prophet wrote, ‘the LORD has laid on Him the iniquity of us all’ and that Messiah would be ‘led as a lamb to the slaughter.’ ”
Karena mused over the verses. Her heart was warmed. She sat thinking; then she looked over to the open window. She heard hoofbeats. Her heart began to race. That must be Colonel Kronstadt.
A few minutes later, she heard the expected knock on the door and from the kitchen the voice of Grandmother Jilinsky, who’d returned from the manor. Her footsteps hurried to answer.
Karena nervously smoothed her fair hair into place and straightened her pale blue peasant blouse and skirt. She picked up one of the rabbinical books, some manuscript pages, and a pencil so she would have a pretense for searching out her uncle, and then walked to the doorway of the study.
Colonel Kronstadt was already being shown inside.
Grandmother Jilinsky displayed her raw nerves by waving her hands about uselessly and talking too fast. She spoke not in Russian but in a mixture of Yiddish and Polish. Karena was surprised to hear Kronstadt reply in excellent Polish. Karena, who could speak Polish as easily as Russian, heard his voice, calm but firm, telling Grandmother that he was sorry to be late and to disturb her at this hour, but that he had his orders, and as any good Polish woman such as herself knew, orders must be followed. He would speak to Professor Menkin and to Miss Peshkova.
“And to Miss Peshkova.”
Stay calm. You have your firm alibi.
“It’s all right, Leah,” Uncle Matvey interjected, coming from the kitchen. “I am expecting the colonel. Why don’t you go to your room and rest awhile? If the colonel wishes to ask you a few questions, he’ll call for you.”
“I shall make the coffee first and leave it to stay hot on the stove, and a platter of sweet breads to go with it.” She turned to Kronstadt. “Colonel,” she said stiffly, bowed her silver head, and left them. At the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder.
Karena stood in the doorway to Uncle Matvey’s office, her arms full of research. She was deliberately looking at her uncle rather than at Alex, even though she sensed that Kronstadt was looking at her.
“My niece, Miss Karena Peshkova,” Uncle Matvey was saying, and Karena was obliged to turn and acknowledge him.
“Colonel Aleksandr Kronstadt,” Matvey told her. “He is well received by your Uncle Viktor and Aunt Zofia.”
Karena realized Matvey didn’t know they had met in Kazan.
Alex, however, walked forward and bowed smartly, expressionless and self-contained. He was well built in his precise-fitting officer’s uniform.
“Miss Peshkova,” he stated.
Their eyes met. His were interesting, not merely because of their unusual green color, but because they were so confident. His dark, chocolate brown hair, the flinty jaw, the flawless Imperial-officer manner—all served him well and could easily be intimidating.
She was sure he was watching the heightening color in her cheeks.
“I had the privilege of meeting your niece in Kazan in June,” he told Matvey, “and again briefly on the road this morning.”
“Yes, we’ve met.” She found her voice and was proud of herself for sounding as collected as he. “We met this morning before I knew you were here in our village to arrest my father as a Bolshevik. Something, sir, I can assure you that he is not. My father is loyal to Czar Nicholas, as are we all.”
Uncle Matvey cleared his throat and took a step forward as if to redirect Kronstadt’s attention to himself, but the colonel’s calm scrutiny of Karena continued.
“I am under orders, Miss Peshkova. My duty is to the czar. My personal opinions of what may have occurred last night do not enter into the matter. I haven’t said your father is a Bolshevik; he has called himself one.”
With Josef confessing he was a revolutionary to protect Sergei, how could she protest to the colonel that her father was loyal to the czar?
Uncle Matvey’s voice came between them, assuring the colonel he would see him alone in his office.
Colonel Kronstadt bowed toward Karena. He was turning to follow Uncle Matvey into the next room when the heavy rabbinical volume that she was holding slipped from the stack of papers to the floor with a thud.
She was about to stoop and pick it up, but he did so for her, looking at its title without a hint of qualm.
“Research on your book, Professor?” He turned to look at Matvey.
“I’m up to my ears in books, Colonel, but enjoying myself immensely with the topic. I fear I’ve made a mess of things, however. Karena’s been assisting me since I arrived in June by putting the manuscript into order. I’ll miss her when I return to Petrograd.”
Alex smiled as he returned the book. The smile seemed to change his entire personality.
“You heard his plea, Miss Peshkova. Perhaps you should return with him to save your uncle from drowning in his sea of books and papers. I’d like to hear your interpretation of his work sometime.”
Karena hardly knew what to say to the veiled challenge and remained silent.
She took the book he held toward her, meeting his direct look and finding it far from lukewarm. “Thank you,” she murmured meekly.
“Colonel, you must come by my apartment, and we can discuss my findings,” Uncle Matvey said, handling the challenge for her. “Karena is likely to be there as well, since she hopes to enter the medical school.”
“I’ll remember that,” Kronstadt said.
Karena could have reminded Uncle Matvey that she would not be going to medical college this year, but if there was any chance she could get to Petrograd, she wasn’t about to throw snow on the kindling.
“It should be a most interesting discussion,” Alex told him. “My cousin Michael is attending a Bible seminary in America, somewhere around New York. He is determined to carry on a theological debate with me. He’s hoping I’ll join him there.”
“I’ll plan on an interesting discussion, then, Colonel.”
Alex turned to Karena. She made no comment.
“I’ll speak with Professor Menkin alone first. Please remain here, Miss Peshkova. I must question you before I return to the manor house where Major-General Durnov waits.”
That was that. The mask of Imperial military professionalism came down again, and his face told her nothing more. He bowed and followed Matvey into the little office, closing the door.
She sank into the nearest chair and waited.
Alex proved the epitome of politeness, but underneath she sensed a man who was committed to Imperial Russia. That put her and her family at dangerous odds. She could not imagine Kronstadt compromising his military duty, whatever it might be, in order to lessen the consequences for anyone who had presumed freedoms that were not theirs to enjoy. His strength could certainly prove an asset, but she was also wary of his inflexible commitment to duty. He knew what he wanted in life and would allow nothing to interfere.
Even so, she was relieved it was Kronstadt, and not Durnov, who asked the questions.
Perhaps twenty minutes plodded by. She heard their low voices, but not well enough to distinguish which man was talking. Just when she believed that it was going well for Uncle Matvey, his voice rose in denial, followed by the calm voice of Colonel Kronstadt.
Soft footsteps sounded behind her. She whirled. A wiry-looking man in plain clothes, but carrying a gun, stood watching her. Policeman Leonovich.
Leonovich had a wide mustache and unruly brown hair that dipped in a wave across his narrow forehead. His eyes were oddly pale—she had always thought so when she had seen him in the village. He carried a cup of coffee in one hand and a sweet cake in the other. He must have entered the kitchen by the back door. It disturbed her that he had entered without her noticing. Something in the way he watched her always made her uncomfortable. He was oblivious to the crumbs dropping on Grandmother’s clean floor.
“You might use a plate, Mr. Leonovich,” she said coolly. “Grandmother does not appreciate sticky crumbs trampled about.”
He might have been deaf for all the attention he gave to her words. Those strange eyes took her in from toe to head as they had at other times. Her skin reacted unpleasantly.
“Are you alone?” he asked, licking the crumbs from his fingers and wiping them on his trousers.
“No. But what concern would that be to you? I did not hear you knock on my uncle’s door.”
“It was open. I hear your father has been arrested, and that arrogant brother of yours is leaving for St. Petersburg—or it’s Petrograd now, or soon will be. The name change is all about hatred for Germans and loyalty to Russia.”
She kept silent.
“Three women alone in the manor house will mean more labor for you now. Maybe I can get one or two of the fellows together, and we can cast in our time to help you fair ladies now and then.”
“We won’t need any help. We can take care of ourselves and the land. Besides,” she said a little too hurriedly, “Ilya will be here to manage the fields and workers.”
He smiled. “Ilya is being conscripted. Just about everybody is. And your uncle is going back.”
Leonovich slurped his coffee and looked around as though deciding on a new home. His presence sparked her anger, but also a looming fear.
“What do you want?” she asked bluntly.
“Where’s the fellow from the secret police?”
“Colonel Kronstadt is in the next room, questioning my uncle.”
He seemed to reconsider whatever was in his mind and patted his jacket pocket, then brought out a rumpled package of ready-made cigarettes. He reached in his other pocket for a match and lit a cigarette.
“I think you better come with me down to the station, Miss Peshkova. I must interrogate you.”
“Colonel Kronstadt ordered me to remain here. He, too, wishes to ask me questions.” For once she was relieved to face questions from Alex.
A sardonic smile touched Leonovich’s lips. “It is not for me to interfere with the Okhrana. But the local police are very interested in this case, Miss Peshkova. We all worked for Grinevich, you see, and we too have questions that must be answered to our full satisfaction.” He gestured his head toward the kitchen. “In there, then. At the table.”
It would be unwise to deliberately anger him, but she wondered who it was in the local gendarmes that had authorized him to come here now. With Grinevich dead as of only this morning, would there have been time enough to select his replacement? Major-General Durnov would likely be the one to do so.
She didn’t think Leonovich had first tried to see Sergei or anyone else at the manor house. For that matter, how had he known she was in the bungalow? It was chilling to think he might have been watching her.
She affected indifference, as though she had no reason not to trust him, and walked past him into the now-stuffy kitchen. The afternoon sun was intense and streamed through the window near the table. She wanted to open the window and let some air in, but Leonovich had decided to stand in front of the table with his back next to it. She pulled out a chair and sat down. He placed his cigarette between his lips to let it dangle while using both hands to remove a scarred leather folder from under his jacket. He flipped through soiled pages, preparing to take notes, and came up with a stubby pencil.
“Now then, Miss Karena, let us get down to the bony facts.”
“Mr. Leonovich, I wish to be called Miss Peshkova, thank you.”
His lip jutted out. “I beg your pardon. Miss Peshkova. Miss Karena Josipovna Peshkova.” He leered. “Any other names, Miss?”
“Simply Miss Peshkova will do sufficiently well, Mr. Leonovich.”
“What do you know about what happened last night?”
“Last night?”
“Miss Peshkova, I don’t like to play fencing games. You know exactly what I mean.”
“I know only what I have heard reported by the authorities.”
“Which is?”
She shrugged. “There was a disturbance last night?”
“A riot.”
“In which poor Mr. Grinevich was injured.”
“His head was kicked in. He died this morning of brain injuries.”
“I am very sorry, but I don’t know anything about such horrible cruelty.”
“You can be thankful you were not there, Miss Peshkova.” His lower lip curled again in a sardonic smile. “After all, you’ve got Zinnovy to swear you were with him, right? At least, that’s what you’re saying, that you weren’t there.”
She remained silent. Could Leonovich possibly have seen her there?
“Sergei Peshkov was there, though, right?”
“Was he?”
“There’s no proof he was there, according to Major-General Durnov. And your questioning of me is useless. The Okhrana has already arrested my father for arranging last night’s Bolshevik meeting. You’re the policeman who first spoke to my father about Grinevich, so you see, it no longer matters about Sergei. Major-General Durnov is satisfied that he has arrested the revolutionary.”
His hard smile appeared to be frozen in place. He altered his course.
“Has Sergei talked to you before about politics?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Seldom, if ever.”
“Seldom. You are lying to me. It is very serious to lie to me.”
“He may have said a few things in passing about the coming war, but hardly anything that interested me.”
“Your brother is interested in this war, is he? What did he say about the war?”
“That Russia would win against any and all of her enemies. That the good Russian people must send the soldiers off with songs and pray for them to have victory over the Germans. That our great czar will lead us to victory.”
The curl of his bottom lip deepened. “How patriotic! And your father? He is leader of the patriotic Bolsheviks in town, is he? You support your father, do you?”
“My father is not a Bolshevik.”
“He has admitted that he is. He knows Lenin, Trotsky, the other revolutionaries. He has books and pamphlets by Karl Marx in his office at the college. He had secret meetings with Chertkov. You know who Chertkov was, Miss Peshkova?”
Yes, she knew exactly who Chertkov was.
“Yes. I see you do. Is there any reason why your father should not join his professor colleague, Chertkov, Miss Peshkova?” he asked with a leer.
“My father is not a Bolshevik.” Her temper flared. “I am not a Bolshevik.”
He leaned toward her and banged his fist on the table. “Lies! Now we are back where we started.”
She heard footsteps behind her halt just inside the kitchen, but her eyes were fastened on Leonovich.
He raised his eyes and looked past her shoulder. She saw his face change, and he straightened from the table.
“Who gave you authority to question Miss Peshkova?”
Karena turned her head. Alex stood in the doorway with an unpleasant countenance.
Leonovich looked uneasy. “I am from the local gendarmes. Grinevich was murdered last night.”
“We are fully aware. Any and all revolutionaries are under our jurisdiction.”
“What about Menkin? Where’s he?”
“He waits in the other room. The interrogation has been handled as fully as possible at this stage. I just received this message from Major-General Durnov.” He held a piece of paper on which something brief had been written. “You are to report to him at the manor house. At once.”
Leonovich eyed him. “What about Miss Peshkova?”
“You need not concern yourself with Miss Peshkova.”
Leonovich narrowed his eyes but appeared to step back.
He looked at Karena, then at Kronstadt. “Why is she here at all? She should be returning to the house.”
Karena wanted to go to the manor house, but only in the company of Matvey.
“She’s been ordered to remain here, Leonovich. I’ll see that she’s brought to the manor. I’ll need to give my initial report on Professor Menkin to the general anyway. I’ll take Miss Peshkova with me. I think I can quickly verify certain necessary points in her statement. I shall let you know the Okhrana’s findings, of course, so that our files on this case may supplement those of the local police.”
Alex walked up behind her and firmly grasped her arm.
“This way, Miss Peshkova. We’ll talk in your uncle’s office.”
He helped her to her feet. Her eyes met his, but she saw nothing in the hard green that offered conciliatory reasons for his action in removing her from the clutches of Leonovich.
She was being led determinedly from the kitchen through the hall and into her uncle’s office. In his other hand, Alex had an equally determined grip on the written notes from his interview with Uncle Matvey, to be later delivered to Durnov.
She walked to the desk, her back toward him. He shut the door against intruders.
Uncle Matvey was gone.