The Kiev Killings: A Novel

Prologue

An unnatural light etched the silhouette of the Bet Hamidrash, the House of Study, against the night sky. Low lying clouds drifting across the Dniepr pierced the red glow over the city. Cries and shouts could be heard at great distances, sounds that did not seem to come from human voices. Podol, the Jewish quarter of Kiev, was burning. Jews were fleeing the city with whatever they could carry, some having lost everything except the clothes on their backs. Less than a month had elapsed since March 1881 when terrorists of the People’s Will movement had assassinated Tsar Alexander II. Now a different kind of terror was spreading through Ukraine, the terror of a pogrom unleashed against the Jews blamed by men driven by fear and hatred over the death of the emancipator of the serfs.

Fleeing Podol

Across the street from the side entrance of the prayer house two youths pressed themselves against a high wooden fence, peering anxiously through a broken slat. Tall with broad shoulders and remarkably similar sharp features, they were dressed in the same shapeless jackets and old linen trousers. Their shoes were worn down at the heels and covered with dried mud, as if they had been tramping for hours in the soft earth of the hills and ravines of the city. The casual passer by might have taken them for twins. But there were no casual passers by that night, and they were not related. The tie that bound them was not blood, but friendship—and a mission.

Later they could not recall how long they had been waiting. They could feel the tension in their legs, and their shoulders began to ache. But they were afraid to move, to reveal their position. First they heard the sound of a door creaking shut, then a shuffling in the shadows of the entrance to the Bet Hamidrash.

David! It was just a whisper.

Quiet, Aaron.

David slipped his hand into his jacket pocket to reassure himself. Over the past few days this had grown into a nervous habit. Now, it felt good, the lead pipe, cold and rough-grained with a sharp edge that had already torn a gash in the lining. He kept worrying it might get caught in the frayed threads of cloth if he had to pull it out in a hurry. That’s when he would need it most, he thought, and wondered whether he would have the nerve to use it to strike down a human being. He nudged Aaron who shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, causing the bulky revolver tucked in his jacket to rub against his side. The sensation made him feel slightly nauseous. It was an old German model; he had already forgotten the name of the manufacturer. Only three cartridges left in the cylinder. Earlier in the day when he had practiced shooting, the gun had misfired twice. Suppose it happened again? He reminded himself that he was supposed to squeeze the trigger, as if coaxing the bullets out of the barrel. That’s what they had said. The image seemed absurd. You have to get close to your target, they told him. You’re sure to miss at more than a few paces. But what did they know about six guns beyond what they had read in the cowboy novels of Karl May.

The short, stocky figure of an older man slowly descended the stairs of the Bet Hamidrash, pausing as he reached the street level, glancing left and right as if uncertain where the greater danger lay. He was wrapped in a long coat or cape that dragged along the ground. David and Aaron watched until they saw a familiar gesture—a fist raised to the glowing sky—then they nodded to one another and touched fingers. They allowed him a head start of fifty meters or so, and fell in behind him. Although they knew where he was going, they kept him in sight all along Shchekavits Street until he reached an archway leading to a darkened courtyard. There were no lights in the house at the end of the passage. They were surprised, though later they realized that this should have served as a warning. They paused, and stationed themselves behind a large chestnut tree directly across the street, watching the man enter the passage. Suddenly, he stopped short, his hands flew to his head, and he rushed forward as if in a frenzy. He disappeared into the gloom. For a fraction of a moment they hesitated before stepping into the quiet, darkened street. There was no traffic and most of the street lamps had been smashed.

Did you see him? Like a crazy man. Aaron immediately felt he had said something stupid.

Something’s wrong, said David. What else do you say, he reflected later on, when you sense that the world around you is breaking up?

Let’s go, Aaron! They were running now, hands jammed into their jacket pockets. They plunged into the passage. The courtyard was deserted. The windows of all the other houses were shuttered. By the faint light of the stars they could see that the doorway in front of them gaped like a black hole.

The door, it’s gone! cried David. A muffled sound, perhaps a shot. Several more followed in rapid succession. David would never forget the sound of Aaron’s cry, No, no! The door was hanging on its hinges; the side window had been smashed. They stumbled across the threshold and groped their way down the corridor. The darkness was impenetrable. An acrid odor stung their nostrils. Aaron recognized it from the day before, just after he had fired his revolver for the first time.

The candles in the bureau, quick!

Aaron fumbled in the drawer. Found them! But where are the matches?

Top drawer right. Here let me get them. As David gently pushed his friend aside, his foot brushed against a soft object. He sank to one knee and reached out with a shaking hand. Later he could not remember why he was so certain that the Rabbi was dead. He had not taken his pulse, listened for his breathing, or done any of the things a lay person might do to check. He just knew it, was all he could say. Then a spasm seized him, and he retched from the pit of his stomach, holding on to the edge of the bureau, unable to answer Aaron’s pleading voice repeating again and again What’s happening, David? What have they done?

Chapter One

Detective Inspector Vasiliev of the Moscow police was alone in his office, standing behind his desk, and holding the order of the Cross of St. Stanislav in the palm of his hand.

A pretty trinket, he muttered to himself, but I’ll never get to wear it. He remembered thinking the same thing when the Minister of Interior had pinned the medal on his tunic. His old friend Ivan, known to everyone as the Iron Colonel, had pulled strings to get him the decoration.

After all, Vasiliev could hear Ivan saying, you came close to saving the life of the Tsar. Damn near got yourself killed in the process. And you caught the swine who planned it.

Vasiliev had felt nothing at all—no elation, no bitterness. Coming close wasn’t good enough, he had replied. Besides, no one can ever know who the swine were. They were too important.

There was no need to say more, not to Ivan. He understood better than anyone what would happen if the story got out. The terrorists of the People’s Will could not have assassinated Tsar Alexander II without inside help. But only a few people knew it. There were two traitors, a high-ranking officer of the Gendarmes and a personal advisor to the heir to the throne, Alexander Alexandrovich, who had become the new Tsar. The bereaved son, now Alexander III, hadn’t a clue. If the truth got out, he would have to live under the shadow of patricide. His reign would have been over before it began. Something similar had happened before in Russia. At the turn of the century, Alexander I had been involved in the murder of his father, Paul. Vasiliev thought about it. Things had changed since then. The conspirators who had killed Paul were nobles. It had been a court coup d’état, and it was hushed up. At that time there were no press lords eager to sniff out a scandal, no large educated public to lap it up. But society had changed since the reforms of the eighteen sixties. If the press got wind of a conspiracy implicating trusted officials of the police and the Tsar’s entourage, the news could shake the empire.

Standing on the steps of the Ministry, Vasiliev had shared his thoughts with Ivan. Imagine the rumors, the suspicion, the accusations, Ivan. Out of such stuff revolutions are made. They had turned up the karakul collars of their greatcoats to protect them from the raw April wind blowing off the Neva. Vasiliev had almost felt sorry for Ivan struggling to hold the high moral ground.

Some day…

Vasiliev had cut him short. Let’s leave your ‘some day’ to the historians. The Stanislav goes into the desk drawer.

Now he was back in Moscow, and the drawer was open in front of him. He dropped the medal into it, closed it and turned the key. He rubbed his left side, as he must have done a dozen times a day now. The pain had subsided. But taking a deep breath would call it up soon enough. Some small fragments of the bomb that had killed the Tsar were still embedded in his flesh. The doctor assured him they would work their way out over time. So, he had responded, I’ll be finding shrapnel in my bedclothes for the next ten years. To hell with that.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. It would be Serov.

A message from Petersburg, beggin’ your pardon, Vasili Vasilievich.

Serov, you know you only beg my pardon when official business shows its ugly mug.

Serov looked shocked. He had been begging Vasiliev’s pardon ever since they were children wrestling in the dust of the village street. He never thought about why he did it. Maybe it was just to remind himself that he had begun life as a serf, the property of Vasiliev’s father. Or maybe he had learned it from his young friend, Vasya. That’s what he called Vasili when they were kids together. He also used to beg the pardon of the village elders, just to tease them, with the same mocking words. The trouble was, Serov reflected, that these days just saying it without thinking would no longer be possible. Just as it was no longer possible to call Vasili Vasilievich ‘Vasya’. Something had happened to turn those plain words upside down. He decided to avoid the issue for the time being, and turned to the samovar.

A strong tea, then? He had already guessed what was needed from Vasiliev’s furrowed brow.

Vasiliev glanced at the message, impatiently flicked the paper with his forefinger, and tossed it on the desk.

Another summons from Ivan. Bless him and forgive him his sins. He doesn’t know what to do with us any more. No one does. Just this morning the chief hinted that a long leave might be best for me. A long leave abroad! Imagine! The chief who has never gone further west than Tver. It’s too absurd!

Vasiliev crossed to the window, his eyes trailing a few lazy snowflakes, the sign of an early spring squall. There was a light accumulation on the rooftops and the grass verges along the Tverskaya Boulevard. It would be a heavy snowfall, but it would melt quickly, leaving traffic mired and the constables splashing around in a sea of mud.

Now, Ivan wants to send us off to Kiev.

There are worse places than the Mother of Russian cities. Serov snapped his mouth shut before ‘beggin’ your pardon’ escaped his lips. This was going to be more difficult than he thought.

Not right now there aren’t.

You mean the disorders.

Disorders? What’s this, Serov? You’re beginning to sound like some Petersburg bureaucrat. They’re beating up the Jews and wrecking their shops. It’s a full scale pogrom!

Serov passed him a cup and saucer. He observed Vasiliev’s expression and decided everything was going to go badly that day.

Sergeant?

Serov stared at the cup and saucer as though they were mortal enemies.

The duty officer collected all the tea-glass holders, said they had to be polished, so they gave us these instead.

For God’s sake! Don’t they have anything better to do, like polishing doorknobs?

Serov winced. He hated to see Vasiliev irritated. It was not like him. There, he was stroking his side again. Serov gave a short cough.

Yes, yes. I know when I’m behaving like an old woman. All right, Ivan wants me, which means us, to leave at once. An official mission to Kiev. He wants to start an inquiry. Wants to know the reason for the pogroms. It seems that the Tsar is upset that law and order are breaking down. Fine, it worries me as well. But why me—us? I—we’re detectives not students of society. The reason, my dear fellow, is to get us involved in a messy business that can only end badly.

But the Iron Colonel wouldn’t…

No, not on his own. But read the message—here, where it begins: ‘My instructions are etc. etc.’ ‘My instructions’ means it’s not his idea. He has to be careful. He might have written ‘You are instructed etc.’ More ambivalent, but dear old soul he wanted us to know that he’s had an order from above, and he’s just the messenger boy. And then he adds, ‘Coming to Moscow to brief you.’ At least he’ll give us the full story. So let’s drink our tea from saucers, watch the snow pile up on Tverskaya, and see what the files can tell us about Russia’s long love affair with pogroms.

Serov sighed as his sipped his tea. He knew he was in for a history lesson. Vasiliev was already rummaging in his files. Serov leaned over to read the handwritten label on the thickest one. Sectarian crimes. The Jews. Newspaper clippings. Vasiliev slammed down another one labeled Official Reports, raising a small cloud of dust. The labels were neatly printed. Vasiliev placed his hands palms down on both files. Did you know, Sergeant, that the first pogrom took place in Odessa in 1821?

Serov assumed the stance of parade rest, his fingers laced behind his back. No, Vasili Vasilievich, I did not. Since he knew nothing at all that had happened in 1821 it seemed like a safe answer.

And then another in 1849. In both cases the Jews were beaten because they failed to doff their hats when an Orthodox Christian procession passed by. Vasiliev opened the first file. "Then ten years later, again in Odessa. Look at this. An article in the Odessa Messenger for April 21; a quarrel among children during Holy Week touched off a riot. Foreign sailors joined in—God knows what for—and the Jewish quarter was sacked. A few wounded, one man killed."

Serov thought for a moment. What were our boys doin’?

The Odessa police birched everyone in sight, it seems. But things got worse the next time, in 1871. See how it seems to happen every ten years, and now 1881, once again.

Ten years is long enough to forget a birching, but not long enough to stop hatin’ Jews.

"Very profound, Sergeant. Give us some more tea will you? This is thirsty work. Now let’s go back to’71. Kotsebu was Governor-General. A local man, good family, you know, but he had trouble controlling the riots. It looks as though Russians and the Malorusy—Little Russians—were involved for the first time. It was the Greeks who had been the pogromchiki up to then. So, I stand corrected. Our countrymen are not in love with pogroms; they learn to like it from others."

Vasiliev took his cup without looking, poured some tea into his saucer, and sipped it noisily. He turned another page, allowing a few drops to spill. Shaking them clear, he continued reading. ‘Officials counted eight fatalities from individuals who drank themselves to death with stolen liquor.’ So much for the lofty ideals of the defenders of the faith.

They always say the price of vodka is too high.

Vasiliev looked up, but Serov had raised his saucer to cover his expression.

A bad joke, Serov. Really shameful! Serov shrugged.

Vasiliev picked up another folder from the official file. It seems there are some decent souls in Piter who were upset that there weren’t enough police on the streets. But it isn’t clear who was responsible. No investigation, no reprimands. It’s always the same. We never seem to have enough people to run the country.

Could be the people who are runnin’ it…well, I’ve no right to criticize my superiors.

Does anyone have the right these days? We ought to be careful, Serov. We are wading into deep waters. Pretty soon we’ll be in over our heads. That’s not a comfortable position. Let’s have a look at the timetables. Then I’m going to send you off to the station for tickets. D’you know Kiev? No? Neither do I, not really. I passed through on my way to the Danube front in’77. A beautiful setting, on hills like Rome, though it hardly looks like an imperial city. Not as old either, though it was founded in the ninth century. Imagine what Russia would be like if the Mongols hadn’t destroyed it. That let the Poles in, and they held the city for three centuries. So Kiev has been ours again for only the past two hundred years. If things had been different, we would be southerners instead of freezing half the year in Moscow or Piter. But aside from a little history, I don’t know much about the place.

Vasiliev tapped his fingers on the open file.

We need some help or else the locals will lead us by the nose. Ivan is arriving tomorrow, but I’m not sure I’ll like his recommendations. I’ll listen. I’ll argue, but then I’ll give in. Why does Ivan always get around my best arguments?

Beggin’… Serov quickly corrected himself. Your conscience. He goes right for it.

"You never appeal to my conscience, Sergeant. That’s why we always get along. So, Ivan will convince me. I’ll resent it. And then? We’ll remain friends. But this time I can’t just depend on what he tells me. I need another line into Kiev. You know what that means. After Ivan a visit to Papa, the source of all knowledge."

Serov nodded. Bow to your father for me and tell him I remain his humble servant.

Chapter Two

The St. Petersburg-Moscow express glided into the Belorus Station precisely at 6:00 on a cold spring evening in late April. Ivan was surprised to see Vasiliev on the platform. You might lose your way, Vasiliev said, It’s been so long since you visited us in Moscow.

You look fit, a bit pale though. How’s the side—still giving you trouble?

Ivan had aged years over the past few months, thought Vasiliev. He had not been injured by the blast that killed the Tsar, but Vasiliev knew Ivan had been no less deeply wounded by the shock and sense of failure.

I’ve reserved a private room at the Strelnya. They’ll be happy to see you too.

They climbed into a waiting droshky and sped off.

These are sad days in Piter, Ivan began. The moderates are on the way out. General Loris-Melikov hasn’t much time left at the Ministry of Interior. Gone are the days when we could call him the ‘Dictator of the Heart!’ The press has been hounding him. Our new Tsar, Alexander Alexandrovich, treats him with distant respect. But, you understand, it is distant. You exposed Prince Bagration for the scoundrel he was. But there are others who are crowding in to take his place. I fear for Russia.

And when have you and I not feared for Russia? observed Vasiliev as the droshky drew up to the Strelnya Restaurant. The place always looked to Vasiliev like an illuminated ice palace with its glass windows and glass roof.

A porter covered with gold braid helped them out of the droshky and bowed them into the crowded, stuffy and noisy restaurant. A trio of young Hungarian string players was working its way through a medley of Viennese waltzes. The manager greeted them effusively, and led them to a private room. "Messieurs, du champagne, avec mes compliments."

The moderates seem to still be in control here, said Vasiliev as they seated themselves.

So our rules still hold? No business until after the third course? This was the part of the meal with Ivan that Vasiliev enjoyed the most. They discussed the entire menu. Each dish seemed to call forth memories of another anecdote, a love affair, a duel.

They ordered the oyster velouté and poached salmon. Shall we stay with the Moёt? What about the sweet?

"I’m swearing off the charlottes. Incipient gout. Let’s just have a few baisers."

All right, Ivan—meringue kisses to honor our fleeting youth.

When the table was cleared Vasiliev offered cigars, and they sat quietly for some time until Ivan, always the first to break the perfect silence, blew a last puff of smoke toward the ceiling.

"So why send you to Kiev when the whole Ukraine is ablaze? It’s not just the pogroms we’re worried about, though that takes first place. The city is a hot bed of conspiracies—or so we’re led to believe. It’s still a Russian city, but that’s changing. The Poles have lost a lot of their political influence. But remember—we are coming up on the twentieth anniversary of the’63 rising. The Poles may be quiet for the moment, but everyone knows that realism is not a Polish virtue. The university students have revived their Union, and plenty of Poles were arrested in the student demonstrations a few years ago. The szlachta have their Nobles’ Club in Kiev. They seem to be more interested now in making money than revolutions. But, the emigration is still active. Wasn’t there a Polish Legion fighting with the Turks against us in’77?"

Vasiliev knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, especially from Ivan. He nodded. You don’t think the local Poles were involved in the pogroms do you?

No, no. It was the work of our Russian brethren. Perhaps Little Russians as well. But that raises another question. Were the riots set off by the revolutionaries?

That sounds unlikely.

Eliminate the impossible, and what remains, however improbable, must be true. Isn’t that an aphorism of the learned Inspector Vasiliev?

As a matter of fact, no. I believe that turn of phrase belongs to a well-known but over-rated English detective. In any case it does not apply here.

Ivan looked offended. Why not?

Because I don’t yet know all the impossibilities.

All right. The People’s Will are still around. The central organization is broken. But a few small groups have survived. We think there are a number of Jews who remain in the leadership. Kiev tells us they may have sparked the riots in order to create disorder, expose the weakness of the authorities.

That seems far-fetched.

It was far-fetched for the revolutionaries to preach socialism to the peasants a few years ago. ‘Going to the people’ they called it. Well, we know how that ended. A farce. This time they may be trying the same tactic in the cities.

"What’s the evidence for that? As I remember the mad summer of’74, the Gendarmes rounded up a few deluded students. Got a few of the poor devils to talk. What did they call themselves? Derevenchiki? That was it–‘villagers’. Have there been any confessions like that this time? I mean from the urban revolutionaries."

Not so far. But one of the reasons I’m sending you is to find out whether there are any grounds for the theory.

I’m not sure I like my reputation as the expert on revolutionaries.

Listen, Vasya—we know the Gendarmes’ll try to pin the riots on the revolutionaries if they can. So we need a neutral observer.

Vasiliev thought of many clever replies, but he repressed them all.

So, where was I? Yes—Poles, revolutionaries, Gendarmes and now Little Russians.

I think they prefer to be called Ukrainians.

"No matter. Ukrainian, if you like! Peasants are moving into the city, a steady stream of them. A few Little…er, Ukrainian intellectuals have got some odd ideas about their dialect being a separate language. Now, I admit it was a mistake to forbid them to publish in this dialect. Just stirs them up. But Petersburg worries about some of the hot heads. They want to turn the language issue into a political movement. It’s been years, decades in fact, since the government broke up the Cyril and Methodius Society. Of course, they were only a handful of intellectuals. But there are signs that something like it, but bigger, may be in the works."

So—Poles, Russians, Ukrainians and Jews. Quite a rich brew. And you expect me to sort all this out?

Vasya, I know that you tend to be skeptical about conspiracies.

Not exactly. As a detective I am used to dealing with conspiracies—small ones, like somebody who’s planning to kill somebody. Sure, the People’s Will is a revolutionary conspiracy. But don’t we think alike, you and I? Piter sees conspiracies everywhere, and in so doing it creates them.

Agreed. I’m just trying to give you an idea of what is going on in the chanceries. We want to head off a wholesale reaction, don’t we? Then we’ve got to separate the real conspiracies from the imaginary ones.

Who else are they sending? I can’t be the only one.

Count Kutaisov, Pavel Ippolitovich. D’you know him? He was governor at Nizhny Novgorod. He’ll be going as the Tsar’s personal emissary.

Then his report will be gospel. Mine can only be heretical, especially if it conflicts with his.

Ivan knew Vasiliev would be touchy on this point. He was prepared, he thought, to deal with it.

Vasya, don’t be difficult. I’m not asking you to be a sacrificial lamb again. Your report will remain confidential, locked up in my safe. I will use your information to counter Kutaisov if it becomes necessary. But I won’t quote you. I’ll just use the facts you dig up. And you won’t mind if I use some of your theories too? No glory for you, but no great risk either. Who knows—you may end up seeing things much the same way as Kutaisov. Unfortunately, I haven’t got a fix on the man yet. I’ll keep you informed.

You still have the same code?

Yes. Oh, one more thing—as if you need to be warned. The Governor-General, as you may know, is Alexander Romanovich Drenteln. Since he is coming off his appointment as Chief of Gendarmes he’s been in Odessa, and now he’s in Kiev. He knows the region well. He has many friends in Piter. He’s a formidable man with a reputation as an anti-Semite. But apparently he conducted himself well during the riots. You’ll have to keep on his good side if you want any cooperation at the local level.

Vasiliev ground out the butt of his cigar. A brandy? he offered.

I think not. I’ll just finish the champagne.

Once more into the breach, dear friend. Ivan raised his glass.

"Morituri te salutant!"

Chapter Three

The next morning Vasiliev rode out alone to the small estate near Kuskovo where his father, Count Vorontsov, was spending the spring. An unusual stretch of sunny days had all but dried out the highway, leaving a few patches of mud in the shadows of the stands of pine and birch. The trees along the verge were no longer thickly massed, as they had been in his youth, but broken up into isolated clumps. Each time he passed this way Vasiliev noticed how rapidly the forest was retreating, giving way to open fields. In the distance he could hear the ringing of axes. For some reason this had a depressing effect on him.

There was still little traffic at this time of year. Occasionally, a mail coach passed him; more rarely, a troika heading out of Moscow, bound for a country house that had been closed up for the winter. As the familiar landmarks came into view he was overcome by memories. A flock of crows wheeling overhead reminded him that it was here at Kuskovo that he had first learned to shoot. On his fourteenth birthday his father had presented him with an English rifle embossed in silver, a reward for his skill as a marksman. He had polished it endlessly, never allowing the servants to touch it. But he never took it to the village, and so never showed it to his mother, for whom shooting was a useless diversion, a game for nobles. If you want a fowl, she would say, I’ll kill one of those plump hens out there in the yard. It just takes one stroke of an ax, and I never miss! And Uncle Sergei can trap a pheasant or a duck with his nets. No need to make all that noise banging away. Then she would bring her lovely face close to him. Never mind, Vasya, you are just fated to live in two worlds.

It was as she said, he thought. He lived in two worlds. Walking the few kilometers from the manor house to the village was like falling back in time. His father’s daily life followed the formal customs of eighteenth century court life, although the Count had been only three years old in 1796, when Catherine the Great died. He disliked the romantics. Victor Hugo was an abomination. Even Pushkin at times strayed too far from the classic rules, though God forbid that anyone else should say so. Well, he was right about Hugo. And the village? A Russia that had changed little since a hundred years before Catherine came to the throne. The peasants spoke of her in hushed tones, as if she were still alive—not that she had ever done anything for them.

It was in the village that he had first met Serov, strong and tall even when he was ten years old, still a serf but not yet bent or broken by the system. Vasiliev chuckled when he remembered how Serov had wrestled him to the ground, not knowing he was the son of the lord and master. An illegitimate son, but even so. How could he have known? As soon as Vasiliev crossed an invisible line somewhere half-way on the path from the manor house to the village, he went through his ritual of changing himself over. He shed the polite manners diligently instilled in him by his Scottish nanny and drove every French verb out of his head. How that would have distressed, his tutor, the proper Monsieur Lepis! He would always manage to find some excuse or other and escape their surveillance for an afternoon with a great sense of freedom. The servants loved him too much to betray him. He knew his father would never hear about it. As for the villagers, they must have guessed who he was, but they pretended otherwise. He was the son of Vera Alexandrovna and an absent father. No one asked questions. Yes, he had often reflected, they must have known. How else to explain the commotion when Serov had knocked him down that first time? Besides, everyone in the village surely had noticed the small signs of favor that eased his mother’s harsh life. They could only have come from a rich protector. But the villagers let Vasya play his part until they began in their quiet way to take over his education.

Vasiliev had never been ashamed of his mother, only of his father for not having followed the example of Count Sheremetev, who had married a serf girl and made her his Countess. But his mother did not yearn for a different life, one where she could not freely wield an ax. Was she only teasing him? He didn’t think so.

He rode on, looking for the track to the village that branched off to the right. The enormous pine came into view, still defying the woodsmen. The peasants believed the demon, who was said to live in its branches, protected it all these years. Or were the other rumors right? Had his father given orders the day his mother died that it should never be cut down? Vasiliev glanced down the track. Had he involuntarily signaled his mount to slow the pace? He urged her forward. Only Serov’s old mother was in the village to remind him of happier days; nothing else for him.

Soon after, the manor house appeared behind its screen of birches. The Count called his little estate Nettles. Was it because he enjoyed irritating his neighbors, who had opposed the abolition of the serfs? Or was it because he disliked sentimentalism of any sort? Vasiliev had never asked him.

When he entered his father’s study, Count Vorontsov was pacing, a crumpled newspaper in his hand. Always restless, thought Vasiliev. He allowed Vasiliev to kiss his cheek, then held him at arms’ length squeezing his shoulders. It was always the same, this moment of scrutiny. Vasiliev was impeccably turned out in his dark blue dress uniform. Oleg, the old servant, had brushed the dust off his trousers and even gone down on one knee to polish his boots before he let Vasiliev into the master’s presence.

The wound?

Healing well, but don’t embrace me too hard.

I never have! The old man smiled grimly. He glanced at Vasiliev’s tunic.

And the Stanislav?

It raises too many questions.

Exposing traitors is an honorable task.

That depends on their rank, like everything else in this country.

The Count nodded his assent. Vasiliev called him a radical Tory, but never to his face. Vorontsov hated the Gendarmes. He called them the secret police. But he believed the Tsar was God’s anointed and could do no wrong.

Sit down and tell me what is going on with these riots, he slapped the newspaper so violently that the pages tore from top to bottom.

Hard to say at this distance. The Ministry is putting it out that the attacks were spontaneous.

Spontaneous or not, the government did nothing to stop them.

That’s a different matter.

Not really. The police have a duty to keep order, not to stand by while it breaks down.

That is what brings me here.

They are trying to involve you?

Ivan wants someone he can trust.

You’ll be going to Kiev?

I’ll start there, but the riots have been widespread: Berdichev, Odessa, you know.

They seem to enjoy placing you in impossible situations.

They probably believe I have inherited the skill to get out of them.

"None of your filial pieties, my boy! Besides my battlefields were straightforward propositions. At least I knew who my enemy was."

Perhaps I’ll win another Stanislav.

Did I really raise you as a cynic?

No, more like a Voltairean.

Come eat something. Marina has prepared your favorite dishes.

They dined alone. When the dinner service had been cleared and coffee had been served, Count Vorontsov gripped both ends of the table, a sure sign to Vasiliev that he was about to make a solemn pronouncement.

The Davidovs have returned from Como. This was not what Vasiliev had expected. He had no desire to see Irina’s parents. What would he say to them? ‘I’m terribly sorry that your daughter has been sentenced to ten years of exile in Siberia?’ He did not want to discuss the matter with his father either. How could he explain that the daughter of the Count’s old army friend had turned out to be a revolutionary? Vasiliev did not understand it himself. He stared into his coffee cup; no tealeaves to read, he thought grimly. Instead, images went flashing through his head, until they stopped at the gates to the central prison for deportees in Moscow. For one insane moment he had been ready to accompany Irina to Siberia. Since then, he had wondered many times what inspired the idea. Had it been the example of the wives of the Decembrists who had joined their husbands in a life of exile? He remembered how Pushkin’s lines had resounded in his head as the warden and he marched down the prison corridor.

Deep in the Siberian mine…

And yet he had never before declared his love for her. How strange it was! They had been standing together in the prisoners’ reception room, with a score of women, staring at them, he in his starched uniform, Irina her hair already shorn, in the gray smock of a prisoner. Even the revolutionaries had not insisted that she cut her hair for the movement. He remembered trying to explain everything to her, but it came out in a jumble. And she kept repeating. No Vasya, none of your romantic impulses! If you want to save me, work for a pardon. I committed no crime. They did not even give me a trial, just administrative exile. Prove to them the injustice. The Tsar owes you something, doesn’t he? Then the warden came back, apologizing.

Vasili Vasilievich, it’s my neck if they know I let you in here. Please, you must go now. Vasiliev would always remember it as the worst day of his life.

So, the Davidovs have returned. He kept his voice steady. He said nothing more. They went out to the veranda to smoke cigars and watch the sun set. There was no need to make conversation. They had reached that point in their lives, Vasiliev reflected, where old quarrels had lost their power to stir them and old wrongs had been forgiven. He would always regret and resent