The Romanov Conspiracy (15 page)

Finally, he studied the stark room. His mouth tightened, as if he was angry or moved by the grimness around him, Yakov couldn’t tell which.

“How does my mother know you, sir?”

“I’m the doctor who delivered you, Leonid.” He smiled faintly. “As I recall, you were a spirited little boy even then. Impatient to greet the world with a loud, angry voice.”

“My mother never told me, sir.”

“After your father left, I found her some work at my doctors’ club. Did she tell you that?”

Yakov shook his head.

The doctor’s eyes settled on well-worn books by the bed. “Your mother’s a kind and honorable woman, Leonid. A caring woman. In a fairer world and with the proper education, she could have done well for herself. But this world we both live in is not often fair, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, sir. Why are you helping us, sir?”

“What are we if we can’t help others? We are nothing. Have you thought of a name for your new brother?”

Yakov’s gaze shifted toward the bed. The tranquil image of a sleeping mother and child would always bring out the tenderest feeling in him. “My mama said we would name him after you, because you saved the baby’s life. What’s your first name, sir?”

“Stanislas.”

“That’s what we will call my brother, Stanislas.”

The doctor looked touched, almost embarrassed. “That … that’s kind of you both. Very kind. Be sure to help your mother, Leonid. She’s had a difficult birth and almost died. Be good to her.”

The doctor patted Yakov’s head fondly, then he stood, handed him a small brown bottle. “I’ll come by tomorrow. Meanwhile, have your mother take just one of these pills if she feels pain. If you need me, summon me night or day, at any hour. I’ll come at once.”

The doctor took one last look at Maria Yakov, still sleeping, then ran a finger delicately across the spines of her bedside books. “Your mama reads a lot?”

“Every night, sir.”

He picked up one of the books. “Your mother likes Tolstoy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I tell you something Tolstoy once wrote, Leonid?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He wrote about our duty to each other as human beings. That whenever we’re offered love, we should accept it, with gratitude. That wherever we encounter tenderness, we should embrace it. And wherever we find a soul in need, it’s our duty to help lessen that need. Do you understand, Leonid?”

Yakov didn’t, but he nodded vaguely. “Yes.”

The doctor gave a tiny smile and placed an envelope on the table. “Perhaps not completely, but I hope that someday you will. Please accept this also, Leonid. I’ll say good night. Take care of yourself and your brother.”

The doctor left, his footsteps echoing down the stairs, and then came the sound of the carriage horses pulling away into the snowy night. Puzzled, Yakov dragged open the luggage cases and gasped.

Inside were tinned meat, jams, tinned herring and sardines, an entire
sack
of potatoes, dried corn, spices, flour, dried milk powder, a big tin of tea, and a huge jar of tiny pickled cucumbers. And clothes for him and his mother—sweaters, a pair of thick woolen scarves, shirts, and socks—some of them new, others used, but they were warm clothes, freshly pressed, and there were blankets and baby clothes and fresh sheets that smelled of lilac. Yakov buried his face in the sheets
and inhaled the clean, perfumed smell. He felt overcome, and tears drenched his eyes.

When he tore open the envelope he found fifty rubles, more money than his mother could earn in months. And a note, in copperplate handwriting, with an address.

Some provisions to help you, Leonid. You’re a very brave boy.
Please don’t worry about the future, I’ll be there to help
.

Dr. Andrev

There was another note in a child’s neat handwriting that said simply,

It was good to meet you, Leonid Yakov. I’m glad your mama is well and you have a baby brother. I wish I had one. Perhaps we can share yours? Perhaps we could all be like brothers? I hope we meet again. Nina sends her good wishes
.

There would be so much more Yakov would feel grateful for to the doctor in the years to come, but that night, staring at the two straw cases overflowing with food and warm clothes, at his exhausted mother and baby brother sleeping, Leonid Yakov could only weep, deep fits of sobbing that racked his body with a wonderful warm feeling of relief and gratitude, and a newfound faith in human kindness.

13

The door burst open and jerked Yakov back into the present. A gust of wind howled into the carriage as Stanislas stepped in, looking such a child in his oversized uniform, and over sixteen years passed in the blink of an eye. “You sent for me, commissar?”

Yakov warmed his hands by the stove. “Relax, you’re not on parade, little brother. Are you still on picket duty?”

Stanislas joined him at the stove, rubbing his palms. “Until midnight, and it’s freezing out there. Any word yet from Uri?”

“No. That’s why I wanted to see you. I’d like you to talk to him.”

“Why would Uri listen to
me
?”

“Because he’s always had a soft spot for you. Uri treats you like a kid brother. He trusts you.”

Stanislas’s face tightened with worry. “You know that neither of us could bear to see him executed. You said you had a plan, Leonid.”

“If I can call it that. Remind Uri of his duty to his wife and son. Hammer that home. Try to appeal to his common sense. It’s worth a try.”

“What if he still refuses?”

Yakov said, “Tell him I’ll transport all of his men to the camp on board our train. No one will have to walk and no one will perish. He has my word on that if he agrees. That’s my plan—it ought to appeal to Uri’s strong sense of duty to his men. Go see him after your watch ends.”

“But you’ll be disobeying Lenin’s orders. You could be shot.”

Yakov put a hand on his Stanislas’s shoulder. “That’s my problem, little brother. Just make sure that you talk to Uri.”

Just before midnight Andrev heard two double raps on the window. The dimly lit room was filled with the sound of the other prisoners snoring. Uri got up off his bed, his blanket still draped over his shoulders, and felt his way to the window. He tapped a reply on the frosted glass, then crossed to the sick bay door and lifted the latch.

Corporal Tarku stepped in, squinting through his glasses, wearing his fur hat, woolen scarf, and mittens. He had on two overcoats, his boots crusted with snow, and he carried an armful of garments. He whispered, “Captain Vilsk donated an overcoat, sir. And I’ve given you one of my sweaters. You better keep your blanket with you. It’s freezing out there.”

Andrev shut the door and accepted the clothes. Tarku helped him place the coat over his shoulders and tie the sweater around his neck, using it as a scarf. “You’re sure you’ll be able to manage with your wounds, sir?”

“I’ll have to. Any trouble getting here?”

“None. The guards are busy changing the picket.” Tarku produced a ferocious-looking butcher’s knife from his coat, the steel flashing in the wash of light that filtered into the room. “I have a weapon. I’m a jeweler, sir. It cost me a valuable gold ring I managed to keep hidden.”

“I won’t ask where. Remember, don’t use the knife unless you have to.”

“What’s the plan, captain?”

“A simple one. You and I are going to walk out the front gates.”

The corporal’s face dropped as he tucked the blade back into his pocket. “You’ve got to be joking, sir.”

“We’ll have to gauge it just before the Omsk train is set to pass the camp, so that we’ll have time to jump aboard.”

“How do we do that?”

“Yakov’s carriage is parked in a siding near where our train passes. He’s expecting to meet me to discuss his proposal. If we can get the guards to take us to Yakov’s carriage, we’ll judge our moment to jump them and climb on board the Omsk train.”

“But Yakov only wants to see you.”

Andrev moved to the door. “Leave that to me.”

“It sounds risky. What if the alarm’s raised and Yakov follows us in his train?”

“It’ll take at least fifteen minutes for Yakov’s engine to get up steam, even longer to catch up. We’d have a head start. Even if he telegraphs ahead to the next station, we’d have left the train by then and be on our way to Perm.”

Andrev silently lifted the door latch, peered out. A few voices soared in the snowy darkness, the sounds of guards talking as the picket changed. The camp appeared asleep, the snow no longer falling, the horizon ink-black. The moon was out, bruised clouds marching across the silver lunar light.

Beyond the camp gates stretched endless acres of impenetrable forest as black as night.

“It’s time, and don’t forget a prayer,” Andrev said, then jerked his head for Tarku to follow as he stepped out.

As they trudged in the snow toward the west gate’s barbed-wire perimeter, they saw storm lamps illuminate the sentry hut. Andrev said, “See that pinprick of light on the horizon beyond the gates?”

Tarku squinted through his broken glasses and could just about make out a faint dot that looked like a low, twinkling star, but he knew it was a locomotive’s powerful headlamp. “The Omsk train is right on schedule.”

“We’ve got about ten minutes before it passes the camp.” Andrev approached the perimeter gates, crisscrossed by barbed wire. Two guards leveled their rifles. “Halt, who goes there?”

Andrev spoke up. “Prisoners Tarku and Andrev to see Commissar Yakov.”

The door of the nearby guard hut opened and the big Ukrainian with the mustache, Sergeant Mersk, stepped out, wearing his sheepskin hat. His left arm was bandaged and he was in foul mood. “What do you think you’re doing here, Andrev? I could shoot you for breaking curfew.”

“You’d be making another mistake, Mersk. The commissar wants to see me.”

The Ukrainian’s face twisted with anger as he strode over. In his right hand he carried a short, brutal-looking Cossack whip, the
nagaika
, a metal tip braided into its end. He thrust the whip handle into Andrev’s face. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with the trouble you caused today, you piece of royalist muck. What business do you have with Yakov?”

“Ask him yourself.”

“I’m asking you.” Mersk’s hand came up and he struck Andrev a blow with the whip handle.

Andrev fell back and Mersk said, “You’ve always been a troublemaker.” He tossed away the whip, drew his Nagant pistol from his holster with his good hand, and there was a click as he cocked the hammer and aimed the barrel at Andrev’s head. Mersk grinned and said to the guards, “He tried to flee and I shot him, right? You’ll both back me up?”

The men readied their rifles. “Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

Mersk’s grin widened. “I say we kill these two traitors for attempting to escape.”

There was the sound of a rifle bolt being cocked, and a voice said, “If I was you I’d drop your revolver, Comrade Sergeant. Unless you want to face a firing squad.”

Stanislas stood with his rifle in his hand, his breath fogging in the icy air. He stepped closer, pushed his rifle barrel into the Ukrainian’s neck. “I said drop the revolver. My brother wants to see the captain.”