To my surprise, the professor nods eagerly. “Thank you! It will be an honor.”
“And you?” Bogdan looks again at Rufus.
“Thank you so much. But I’ve been flying for so many hours…”
“Of course, of course. Get some sleep – you need it.”
27
Texas, Russia
The caravanserai is a small courtyard, surrounded by accommodation for travellers. I have one room; Rufus and the professor share another. I sleep, and it’s like heaven.
At breakfast, we tuck eagerly into porridge, honey and bread that’s hot from the oven. Axelson speaks over his spoonful of porridge.
“I had a quiet evening with Bogdan and his brothers. We drank only a single solemn toast: to the memory of the Romanov family. As it happens, the bar we were in had a photograph of the imperial family on the wall. People started bringing in candles, putting them on the sideboard below the picture. Soon everyone in the bar wasn’t drinking: they were praying.”
Rufus nods. “It may have been a sober evening, Professor. But I’m sorry – there is no way I could have joined you. I know only one thing about Cossacks: when you drink a toast with them, you are obliged to drink vodka. I don’t drink.”
Rufus’s last sentence doesn’t sound like a boast, or a claim, or even a promise. It sounds like a simple statement of fact. Axelson and I look at him in surprise, and I blurt out.
“That’s news to me, Rufus!”
He stirs some honey into his porridge, looking intently at the glistening golden trail as if mesmerised by it. Then he speaks. He still doesn’t look up at us; but his voice has a depth I’ve never heard from him before.
“I know that I’ll never drink again. Not after Yekaterinburg. Hearing those cries – and, those guards’ voices in the night.”
“Of course.”
“All those men’s voices were horrible. But for some reason, one voice in particular sticks in my mind.”
I reach out and touch his hand. “I know, Rufus. I know the voice you mean.”
We are interrupted: Bogdan walks in. He greets us all, but then speaks to Rufus.
“Dmitri knows all the best contacts in the market, so he is getting your aircraft fuel today. Could you go with him to help sort it out, Mr du Pavey?”
Rufus nods eagerly, but Bodgan quickly continues. “As for me, I am at liberty! So I can take both of you to visit the Ataman – the elected leader of the Astrakhan Host.”
Bogdan, the professor and I walk out of the market into the shadow of the towering blue-green domes of the cathedral. Beyond, we enter an area of wide streets lined with tall, regular terraces; large town houses. Their stucco frontages gleam white in the sunshine. The professor looks around.
“We might be in any fine city in Europe…”
Bogdan nods. “These are some of the best houses in Astrakhan. And – here we are.”
He knocks on a shiny, black-painted door that could be that of a well-to-do house in London. A pretty young woman in a mob cap and servant’s apron opens the door; Bogdan speaks to her.
“Elena! I have brought some friends to visit Mrs Sirko.”
We step into a quiet, genteel hallway, carpeted with a thick Persian rug. The only noise is the ticking of a grandfather clock. A woman in late middle age appears from a doorway. Even I am taller than her: she’s under five feet in height. But below her white hair, I recognise the shape of her face. I look at her strong cheekbones and the curve of her brows, above those brown, intelligent eyes.
“Come into the drawing room, Bogdan! Please, introduce your friends.”
“Miss Agnes Frocester, Professor Felix Axelson – this is Viktoriya Sirko, widow of Pavel Sirko, former Ataman. And, of course, mother of your friend Yuri. And, she is the acting Ataman of the Astrakhan Host.”
I’m doubly taken aback. It feels so odd to meet Yuri’s mother like this. But also, I simply assumed the Ataman would be a man. In my head I’d had a picture of a woolen hat, a large mustache and a sling of bullets.
Mrs Sirko shakes my hand. “As Bogdan says, I am merely ‘acting’ as Ataman. Our true leader, like all other younger male Cossacks of Astrakhan, has joined the White Army. Most men were in military service anyway. Our Host has lost many fine men in the war with Germany: now it looks like we will lose more, in a war with our own people.”
Bogdan nods. “Now that so many men are away, a poll among the remaining Cossacks felt that Mrs Sirko should lead the Astrakhan Host. But I didn’t vote for you, Viktoriya.”
“You cheeky wretch, Bogdan! But I too was surprised at that meeting of the Host, when almost every hand in the room was raised in favor of me, and there were voices shouting ‘It pleases us for Viktoriya Sirko to act as our Ataman!’”
Bogdan grins. “They all wanted someone to boss us about…”
She pretends to ignore him. “Now – we must have tea!” She calls into the kitchen “Elena, bring the samovar into the drawing room.”
The drawing-room is large, but cluttered with ornaments and mementos; on the walls, Cossack sabres are hung alongside paintings and etchings, all showing scenes of Cossack life; riding, hunting, and military service. I think of Yuri, growing up in this house.
Mrs Sirko sees me looking at the pictures. My attention is taken by a framed photograph of a uniformed man who looks like Yuri. She comes over, and we stand side by side looking at it.
“My husband; a fine man. Clever, too: he loved his books of science and history. It is the greatest sadness of my life that I married him when I was too young to really understand him. Soon after our wedding, he entered military service, then he was here at home only for one week or so in each passing year. Then one day I got a letter to say that he had been killed, in a battle with the Japanese near Vladivostok.”
Despite her sad tale, she smiles brightly, and points out a different picture: a painting of a woman with plaited yellow-blonde hair, wearing a Cossack tunic and riding a horse. The woman carries a long, shining spear.
“That’s Alena Arzamasskaia; she was a commander of six thousand men in Stenka Razin’s war. So you see, I have my precedents as an Ataman. And then there is this! – as an American, you would like to see it.”
She shows me a newspaper article about a business delegation to Astrakhan from Massachusetts that took place in 1913. I explain to her that I’m from near Boston, and I read the article. The article is accompanied by a photo, showing Mrs Sirko shaking the hand of one of the visitors. A tall, broad-shouldered young man stands behind her and towers over her. Of course, I recognise him.
Over tea we tell her our story. There is no point in secrecy any more: I see tears in her eyes as we relate the murder of the imperial family, and she curses softly under her breath. Then she looks round at us.
“I have no words for the actions of these Bolsheviks, or the punishments that God will vent on their souls. They are sons of devils! And the Tsar and his family – they are martyrs, saints! We must organise a meeting of all the lieutenants of the Host remaining in Astrakhan. The city is under Bolshevik control – but every citizen hates them, and us Cossacks hate them most of all.”
The professor buts in. “As an outsider, madam, I would advise caution…”
“As an outsider, Professor Axelson, you are entitled to your opinion. But us Cossacks will make our own decisions, as we have always done. Now, onto more pleasant business. You see, I have a letter – from Yuri.”
I hear a noise behind me: Rufus is coming into the house. He enters the room and bows low to Mrs Sirko before turning to the professor and me.
“I have good news and bad news. The good news is that we have some fuel. Dmitri has managed to acquire three large drums.”