Assassination of E. Hemingway E-Book

Chuck Waldron

• Herausgeber: BooxAi
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

For a fan of historical fiction, An Assassination of E. Hemingway has it all, a thriller filled with conspiracies, revolutions, double-dealing, lies disguised as propaganda, assassination, and wars.
Pasha, the central character, made his choice between Trotsky and Stalin. That choice cast a forty-six-year shadow over him from 1917 in Petrograd, Germany, Spain, Mexico to Cuba in 1959. Dealt a bad hand, Pasha played it to the end, with a bit of help from some friends.  
Internally, Pasha started to have misgivings about his passion for the Revolution and international Communism. Doubts gradually eroded his convictions. Outwardly, Pasha faced an evil life-long nemesis and, at the same time, the long reach of a KGB death warrant.
What will be the consequence of that choice made back in 1917?

Leseprobe

Assassination of E. Hemingway

Chuck Waldron

Assassination of E. Hemingway

Copyright © 2022 by Chuck Waldron

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by BooxAi

ISBN: 978-965-578-014-7

Assassination of E. Hemingway

Chuck Waldron

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Prologue

If you’re reading this, you may - perhaps - need a translation if your Russian isn’t up to the nuances.

В течение длительного времени, мертвая точка. It means, for a long time, dead.

They’re coming for me. It’s only a matter of time. I don’t even bother locking the doors at night. If they want me, well…

Fate? Chance? Destiny? Please do not mourn for me or celebrate my life. I’m quietly living out my string. I made my choices and am at peace with them. Can many say the same?

I’m too drained for philosophy, speculating, wondering if my life was the result of accident or fate, or perhaps both, if I think about it.

Passing on a sidewalk, you might have noted my bushy eyebrows. Years ago, I gave up trying to tame them. That, along with my dark skin, might’ve suggested Slavic to you, and you wouldn’t have been far off the mark. I was too short to be called tall and too tall to be called short. My best attribute was looking like an everyman, someone you would pass without remembering.

I’ve been known by many names, of course, but that was the nature of my profession.

Maybe my beginnings will help you understand me better. There’s a saying when I was a young boy in my home village. “Ничего хорошего в Одильск никогда не приходит, Russian for nothing good ever comes to Odilsk.

Born on 4 February 1899, what did anyone know about the whirlwinds of change that the next century would bring?

The collective memory of those events is now swept into the dust-bin of history.

My name is Slavsky Pavel. My Patronymic, Ivanovich. My Papa and friends called me Pasha. My home was on the other side of the mountains, our Russian version of what you Americans would call living on the wrong side of the tracks.

My small village of Odilsk was perched on a dirt road, a motley collection of huts. None would be mistaken for a dacha. Looking east, I could see for what seemed like hundreds of miles stretching over a vast plain. To the west lies a forest so dense it was difficult to walk through. Giant trees and dense undergrowth made hiding places for our version of hide and seek.

The village was there because of those woods. Men from my village hewed trees, cutting them to be shipped to the Tzar’s warehouse. The Tzar made lots of money from the wood. The woodcutters, not so much

My first memory? From the beginning, I’ve lived with guilt, drawing from that wellspring of Ruskey entrenched melancholia. I was told I’d killed my mother. She died three days after I was born. I grew up hearing the whispers, blaming me. A heavy burden for a young boy to carry, eh?

I remember another day. 15 January, a few days away from my sixteenth birthday. Maybe it started with a neighbor who coveted our backyard for a vegetable garden. It could have been someone with a grudge, angry at my father for some reason. My father could be an unpleasant man when he was drunk, which was most of the time.

It didn’t matter, the who. What mattered was what.

It may have been the Tzar having an itch he wanted to scratch with our tiny village. In any case, the Cossacks turned up one day. They couldn’t have been looking for Jews. The last pogrom sent them packing a long time ago. Well, there was one exception. The young man was a village secret, my close friend Mikhail was Jewish. His parents and brother weren’t so lucky. Their vanishing during the last pogrom remains a mystery.

The Cossacks rode in, looking grand, sitting back-straight, sunlight flashing from their daggers.

“Look at that pair,” Papa said in a low voice. Then my father turned strangely quiet as the event unfolded. He pointed with his chin towards two men on horseback, following the Cossacks. I still remember their eyes. They looked like marbles as they glanced in my direction. Hard piercing eyes, black as coal.

“Okhrana,” Papa whispered, sounding exceedingly sober. “See the way they looked at us?” He moved to shield me from their view. “It will get dark soon. Then, you leave. Pack all you can carry.”

I heard something in his voice. Fear? Papa was never afraid of anything or anyone. Now I heard and smelled his fear. I nodded my understanding.

“Go through the forest. Keep walking west.” The sun reflected from the moisture forming in the corner of his eye.

Is he crying? Yes, he is.

“Remember the forked tree, the one divided by a lightning?” I nodded, “Turn left and follow that trail into the forest. Walk until you come to the mountains. After that, cross over and keep going west. Be careful who you ask for help.”

We all knew the dreaded Okhrana. The Tsar’s secret police could arrest someone who looked at them in the wrong way. My father apparently did that.

I looked to the west, seeing ominous-looking clouds flooding over jagged mountains, seeping through a pass formed by two peaks, snaking down a valley between trees, marching in a direct line towards Odilsk. A wall of threatening black clouds framed the storm heading our way.

The sun went into hiding, and darkness came quickly that night. My father handed me a leather bag. “It’s all the coins I have,” he said. His voice was soft, unusual for him to appear sober. “They are coming for both of us, but you will be gone. Stay gone, my son.”

Chapter1

January 1915 - Odilsk, Russia

Pasha knew his father’s instructions were important. His Papa would roar like a bull when he was angry or wanted to make a point. This night, however, his father spoke in low tones, as if emphasizing their importance.

“Follow the stars. The stars are your friends. Remember what I say, Pasha. The stars are your only friends. Keep going west. Do you hear me, Pasha?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“The Cossacks will hunt you down if you stay on roads, but they are afraid of the forest. That will be your advantage.

Once over the mountains, approach with caution. Muzhiks are the peasant farmers breaking their backs tilling the Tzar’s land. They will have no love for the Tzar. Avoid villages. Some nosy Babushka will point the finger at you in exchange for a coin from the Okhrana, the not-so-secret police. Take this map I made,” handing Pasha a folded paper.

Pasha said nothing, staggered by the fervency in the old man’s words. He unfolded the crude map, studying a trail marked by his Papa.

“The bastards are afraid of the forest. You and I know better, my son. Use their fear of wild animals and imaginary creatures they fear lurk in the dark.”

“Follow the rough paths through the trees. Nobody lives there. Search for water. The forest is blessed with small streams. The timberland provides the food you will need. You knew how to find nourishment. When you reach the far side of the trees, you will see mountains. Turn south until you spot the way between the two peaks shaped like a camel. Cross over and keep hiking west.”

Pasha watched his father wipe the moisture from his eyes but pretended he didn’t notice.

“I made that route once when I was your age. It’s an arduous trek in the dark months of winter. Look for a town with many churches. The town is called Solikamsk. Ask for the “Mad Priest” named Gennady. If he’s still alive, your uncle Gennady will help you. Now, go.”

Uncle? Mad priest? Did I hear correctly?

At the first sight of the rising moon, Pasha lifted his bag. He never forgot his father’s body-hugging embrace. The young man turned away and stepped out the back door. He breathed in the earthy scent from the neighbor’s two mules. They didn’t look up from the feeding trough as Pasha vanished into the graying dusk.

Pasha paused at the edge of the forest. Shifting his carry-all, he turned for a final look at his village and a sight that would scar him for life. He used his hand to part the tall grasses. He witnessed Cossacks drag a man to the middle of the street. Even in the dimming light, he knew it was his father. They began striking him with rifles and repeatedly kicking him. Pasha watched until there was a disturbing flash of light, followed by the sound of a gunshot. His father’s body lay on the road, motionless.

Pasha pulled his hand back, the parted grasses closed like a stage curtain.

Struggling to cope with the sight of his father’s murder, he made a vow of revenge.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He looked up. Using the stars as a guide, he headed into the thick forest. Pasha, the son of a woodsman, vanished quickly into the darkness. He soon set at a steady pace.

He wouldn’t need a calendar or watch, even if such things were available. Darkness enveloped the Russian north in mid-winter. The cold was tolerable for a young man born to it. Trees with broad spreading branches kept the bone-chilling wind at bay. Moving facilitated blood flow, helping maintain his body temperature.

Pasha knew that if he kept this pace, he would have the advantage over anyone following him into the trees. In their irrational fear, they would wait for daylight. In January, darkness lasted nearly nineteen hours. That gave Pasha a considerable head start. He walked at a steady pace. Each hour puts more than three miles behind him.

Once, he stopped at the sound of a nearby animal scurrying away.

Advancing, he sniffed for the odors of forest creatures. Those unfamiliar with the woods at night might be tentative and afraid. Young Pasha advanced as if he was on a city sidewalk.

He knew the woods also had dangers, but that was the risk he had to take.

He stopped when he sensed the unique scent of a bear. Pasha kept still, listening to the beast sniffing and pawing for food. The bear seemed unaware of a human’s proximity. Glancing up at tree leaves fluttering, Pasha understood the reason for his good fortune. He was upwind from the animal. Finally, the bear’s footsteps evaporated into the surrounding trees. When it was safe to do so, Pasha let out a long breath of relief.

Inhaling cold air and expelling vapor, Pasha kept trudging until the first light. When the first traces of sunlight streaked through canopied leaves overhead, he stopped. His legs throbbing, pain impossible to ignore. He consoled himself, knowing he no longer needed to push himself as vigorously.

Using his carry-all as a pillow, he lay back watching a large raptor, a Norther Goshawk. He smiled as it glided in graceful circles, watching for prey.

Pasha slept, bathed in the subtle warmth of sunlight.

In five hours, darkness would return. He needed to be on the move again, but he was confident nobody was close behind.

But images of his father’s murder pushed restful sleep to the side. Still, Pasha couldn’t cry, his emotions locked away.

The following night, Pasha was glad he maintained the demanding pace that first night. Each mile put a significant distance from those hunting him. The forest was his chief advantage. Cossacks looked grand on horseback, but such horses were no use in a thick forest without clear trails, especially at night. They were bred for galloping across the vast expanse of the wide-open steppes.

Now, moving among oak, birch, spruce trees, and dense undergrowth, the near-impenetrable forest calmed Pasha. The thick woods were inaccessible to anyone unfamiliar with them. Taking no chances, however, he continued to force himself at a punishing pace. Five days later, Pasha stepped into the sunlight, leaving the shadowy woods behind.

Pasha stood in awe of the snow-covered mountains. He had never been this close before. Cloud banks swept between peaks as if an unseen dragon was on the other side, blowing streaming vapors west to east.

Gathering kindling, he started a fire, no longer worried about being detected. Pasha used his knife to deftly skin the rabbit he’d trapped. He held the meat over flames.

He felt overwhelmed at the scale of the mountains. He stared at the map his father made for him, with a V mark to indicate a place to cross. When the rabbit was cooked, he paced back and forth, chewing on the meat, wiping drippings from his growing beard. Then he saw it. Two mountain peaks formed an almost perfect Vee, just like the mark on his father’s crude map.

Resting two more nights, he set off, plunging his feet through the top layer of snow. He tried to ignore the cold. It seemed like being attacked by a swarm of bees, biting hard pellets striking his face.

No turning back. From here on, it was one foot beyond the other. Then one more after that.

He imagined his father making this trek. Pasha’s tears turned instantly into frozen beads.

Moving and stumbling down the western slope of the mountains, Pasha didn’t look back. He tried to put the memory of his mountain crossing behind, a blur of cold, wind, snow, and ice.

Reaching the mountain top, he’d faced the wind and stretched out his hand. It was too cold to celebrate. He was caked with snow, looking like an albino nailed to a crucifix. It was foolish. Time to move on.

More distance from Papa.

Each step and stumble down the west-facing slop brought warmer temperatures. Soon he was walking along a dust-covered road.

Pasha carved a mark on his walking stick each night. It was a woodsman’s trick to keep track of time. He’d cut fifty-three marks into the wood when he stopped at the last farm. He had no way of knowing he’d pushed himself at a brutal pace for over nine hundred miles.

His beard, grown long, was filthy with dirt. His leather boots, now worn through, added to Pasha’s limp from a recent sprain.

He could tell they were wary, but invited him in. He’d asked how he would know the town. “When you see rising church spires in the distance, that will be Solikamsk. You will recognize many churches,” the peasant woman said, her husband nodding in agreement.

Pasha, heeding his father’s counsel, had approached the farm with caution. Papa was right. These people held no love for the Tzar. Farmers he met along the way were all suspicious at first. Strangers always brought with them an element of peril.

“We toil and farm the land. The Tzar takes the crops and meat.” Saying this, the old woman, with a face like a raisin, spat into the fire. The man nodded, exhaling smoke from his pipe, forming a cloud around his head.

“They don’t leave us with enough to live on,” the old woman said. “They don’t care about us as long as we meet their quota.”

“We have our ways,” the man said. “Crops and game are hidden under rocks and places they don’t know about.”

“Shush,” the Babushka said. “The Okhrana has big ears.”

“Rest tonight,” she told Pasha. “Follow the road tomorrow. It leads to Solikamsk, on the banks of the river Karma.”

“What about Cossacks?” What about Okhrana? Pasha asked.

“Not so much on our side of the mountains,” the old man said. “It’s the Army you need to worry about. They have orders to conscript men your age. Although you can see them coming for miles with all the dust, they stir up, get off the road quickly. Lay flat. It makes it impossible to see you among the sunflowers, grasses, and wheat.”

The next morning, Pasha encountered people moving in the opposite direction. Heads low, they mumbled what might pass as hello, or not. Russians rarely looked strangers in the eye, and peasants never did so.

Now, on the edge of the town, he wondered. Was it true? Did Papa have an uncle here? If so, was Uncle Gennady still alive? Entering town, passers-by gave him sullen, suspicious glances. Pasha did the same, not trusting them either. It was ingrained. Russians had long ago learned to avoid eye contact.

Pasha entered the town market square. Dust clouds swarmed around his feet like a swarm of mosquitoes.

A tall man strode toward him, cassock billowing in the wind. He was a black priest, called that because of the color of his robe. The scowling priest tried holding his robe together with one hand, his skufia with the other, while cursing the wind.

Noting theskufia, a hat worn by lower-ranking priests, emboldened Pasha. He held up a hand to stop the man, obviously annoyed to be delayed.

“Reverend Father, I’m looking for my uncle, a priest here. Will you help me, please?”

When the sour-faced priest heard the name Gennady, he looked like he wanted to spit.

“I don’t know why that man wasn’t defrocked long ago,” the priest said. “A troublemaker. Hah, I know he’s being watched by the—.” He didn’t finish. “Still, if you are indeed related, search for the dilapidated wooden church,” pointing toward the river. “If the termites haven’t chewed it to the ground, he will be there in all piety, handing out food to beggars.”

With that, the priest with the red skufia strode off, looking as if he had a sign on his back saying “Жопа.” Pasha laughed at the Russian word for arsehole.

The wooden church wasn’t as decrepit as described, but it was no rival to the grand churches in the center of town. A man in a blue cassock stood in the center of a crowd. He ladled soup into gourds, while an aide at his side handed out slabs of bread. Pasha stood back, watching.

No one started eating until the priest held a slab of bread over his head. “In the name of our almighty redeemer,” he began. After the blessing, people ate slowly, as if knowing it may well be the last.

There was no mistaking the man. Pasha, feeling light-headed, stared as if seeing an apparition.

Uncle Gennady and his Papa were twins.

Chapter2

April 1915 – Solikamsk, Russia

As if sensing a new presence, the priest in the blue cassock turned his head, cocking it to one side. He stared at Pasha's features and slapped a hand to the side of his face. A smile flickered like the first small flames of kindling ready to burst into flame.

He rushed over and grabbed Pasha in a great bear-hug, lifting the boy off the ground.

"My God," he cried. I know you! You have to be Pasha. You look like..."He frowned, wavy lines wrinkling his forehead, his hand covering his mouth. “…your father." It sounded like a question, but the priest knew.

"The Cossacks," Pasha answered. No further explanation was needed.

"How long since you've had a proper meal? You need to put on some weight. You look like a broomstick."

Pasha looked over at the tables. "They're so many. I don't want to take from them."

"My nephew," the priest roared to the crowd, "wants to know if we have enough food for him."

This was greeted with laughter. "The Father is making a joke," someone yelled.

"He feeds us with loaves and fishes," another added.

"I'm preparing more soup, and I have bread fresh from the oven," a voice from what looked like a kitchen.

Pasha and his uncle tore a portion of a loaf of bread into two pieces. They scooped a slight hollow in the dough. They followed an ancient tradition of salt onto bread. "We serve bread to welcome you, salt to toast a long friendship."

"Khleb da sol! Bread and salt!"

"Bread and salt," Pasha replied, smiling for the first time since….

He couldn’t remember the last time.

Uncle Gennady, Father Gennady, rushed into the kitchen. Returning with a ceramic jug, he roared. "Vodka! Nostrovia!

Pasha wondered if his uncle was always this loud. "Nostrovia, cheers, he replied.

"Za fstrye-tchoo. To our meeting, nephew."

"Tell me about your journey, nephew," Uncle Gennady said later. They were alone, at a table in the kitchen. The warmth radiating from the cooking oven chased away any evening chill lurking at the open door. "You crossed over during the winter months. That is samyy opasnyy, the most dangerous."

"Ne tak uzh i plokho, not so ba…," Pasha started to say. His Uncle raised his hand and waved it in front of him to indicate he wasn’t hearing such nonsense.

"I know better. I've made that treacherous journey. It’s precarious even in excellent weather. The truth, nephew."

"Papa and I watched the Cossacks ride into Odilsk. They looked grand. Then father warned me. He told me the way through the forest, thickest in all Russia. He said Grass-landers, his name for people who tilled the fields, wouldn't know the ways of the trees. He drew a map and told me about the pass," the young man paused.

"As soon as it was dark…they dragged him…gunfire," Pasha said, unashamed of his tears.

Uncle Gennady closed his eyes, his face wrinkled in pain. Father Gennady gave the sign of the cross and told Pasha to go on.

"It was familiar until I got to the mountains. I had to put on my heavy coat, my fur hat, to protect me from the cold and wind.

Before starting over the mountains, I spent time hunting, wrapping meat for the days ahead." Pasha chuckled. "I had two skins for water, but soon they were frozen solid." He shrugged. "You know the Russian way." We don't linger on unpleasantness. It was one foot ahead of the other until I was laughing as I slid down the other side. I did have one or two bruises from hitting rocks, but I was delighted to be over the mountains."

His Uncle got up and carried a samovar to the table. Soon he was pouring out thick liquid. "Tea and honey, "chay i med? They sat in silence, finishing their tea.

"Papa warned me about strangers," Pasha finally said. "Papa said farmers might be helpful, but guarded. They would have little love for the Tzar."

Uncle Gennady tilted his head back as a roar of laughter ricocheted around the brick walls. "No love for the Tzar," he said. "No love for the Tzar. A funny man, your Papa.

"But peasants gave me shelter and what food they could share. There was always bread and salt. They told me how to avoid the soldiers on this side of the mountains, how they're conscripting men to serve in the Tzar's war against Germany. I’d never heard about a war. I know I wanted no part of it."

"That’s why it’s dangerous for you. Remain out of sight. As much as I love this nephew who walked into my life, you must walk out again.” The priest brushed tears from his face and beard.

“Why, Uncle?”

“Too many people think your father and I have dangerous ideas, dangerous to those in power. If they connect you to me, the police will begin snooping.

“I only talked to one person here,” Pasha said. “A Black Priest. He described the scowling man he met earlier.

“Blyad, fuck,” Gennady said in a low growl. “If anyone turns you in, it will be him. He hates me for feeding the needy and providing shelter to the boatmen and peasants.” He stood and motioned Pasha to do likewise. Holding his nephew in a long, tight hug, he whispered. “I will sleep and ask God for a scheme to get you away from this danger tomorrow.”

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Pasha was immediately awake, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He raised his fists in self-defense.

“Easy, nephew.” Uncle Gennady helped him up. “We can’t delay.”

Pasha looked out at a layer of mist over the river, spreading like a curtain, hiding the city. He heard the sound of boats grinding against the pier.

“Dawn is hours away,” Gennady said as a bear of a man entered the kitchen. The two men held up their right hands in a sort of gesture or salute, then hugged.

“This is the nephew I told you about,” pointing to Pasha.

“You look like a strong lad. We can use men like you. “Zovi menya Kalya, call me Kalya.”

Pasha wondered, “We can use men like you. What did that mean?”

“Listen carefully, nephew. Change is coming. You can be part of it or merely swept up by it. The Tzar’s days are numbered,” seeing the shock on Pasha’s face. “Many of us have prepared the way. That’s why I’m a danger to them. I know what awaits me, but I have to stay. I can’t abandon those who need me here.”

Pasha noticed Kalya put a hand on Gennady’s shoulder as if to say, I know.

“Kalya will hide you on his boat. In the days ahead, he will tell you more about the coming change. You must make this journey for me. I’m too old. With you to continue, I will die knowing that my blood will flow through the coming revolution. I recognize a surprise in your eyes. Trust me, nephew. Your Papa would have been proud.

Little was said by way of goodbye or needed to be. Pasha and his uncle were of a people who spoke little, their emotion expressed by the sadness in their eyes. His lasting memory of his Uncle Gennady was the feeling of being squeezed in one of his uncle’s famous bear hugs.

The shock of leaving so abruptly layered over Pasha’s feelings. I will never see my uncle again. Pasha let go of the last remnant of his family. He met, then said goodbye in a mere twenty-four hours to an uncle he never knew about, his father’s twin brother.

With nothing to compare, Pasha smelled a powerful odor. Hiding in the bowels of the river barge, he attempted to identify the combination of offal, the by-products of edible organs of animals mixed with milled grains. Pasha sniffed at oils and strange scents.

Who am I to complain?

When cramping set in, Pasha stretched his legs as best he could.

Finally, he was allowed on deck. It was during his frequent talks with Kalya that Pasha began to understand what might be ahead.

Kayla told Pasha stories about men with names like Marx, Engels, Lenin. Kayla weaved ideas, using words like Socialism, Bolshevism and Revolution, until the words began to take shape in the young man’s mind.

“The knee of the Tzar had been on our necks far too long,” Kalya said. “A revolution is coming. Wait and see. Lenin and Bogdanov are remarkable men. I will teach you the basics, but others will teach you so much more. You’re going to become part of history, comrade.”

Using candlelight, Pasha studied the sealed envelope his uncle thrust into his hand as the boat pulled away in the early-morning blackness.

“It’s important, nephew. Make sure you give it only to this man. Nobody else. Will you promise me?”

Looking at the adressee, Pasha promised he would.

Lev Davidovich Bronstein

It was a letter to a man known in Petrograd as Leon Trotsky.

Chapter3

“What happened back there? Why did we have to leave in such a hurry?”

“The Black Priest informed on you, Pasha. Word came to us that soldiers were on their way to arrest you. They would’ve turned you over to the Okhrana, the type of men who murdered your father. Their interrogation techniques aren’t subtle. Your uncle—”

“What will happen to him, Kalya? I know he told me, but I’m asking you, why did he stay behind?”

“It will not end well for him. He knows that. He needed somebody to deliver that report you’re carrying. He's too old now.”

“One day, I had an uncle I’d never met. I met a priest, my father’s twin brother. The next day….” Pasha took a deep breath. “I’ll never see him again, will I?”

“Pasha, that’s why you’re here. With me. You are the chance to fulfill the destiny your father and uncle dedicated themselves to.”

My father? Pasha wondered. What did he ever do, except drink and fight?

He gave Kalya a questioning gaze and wondered. Why should I trust this man? From villages like mine, Russians naturally distrust strangers, an instinct based on centuries of oppression. But this man seems different. My uncle trusted this man, Kalya. Pasha decided to trust Kayla too.

“How do you know my uncle?” The two of you give a salute instead of the sign of the cross. That’s strange for a priest.”

“It feels like I’ve always known Father Ivanovich, your uncle. I was in prison for stealing one of the Tzar’s chickens.” Kalya laughed. “That’s an expression, boy, a phrase that stands for anything the Tzar and his sycophants care to pin on one of us.” He brushed a leaf from his jacket sleeve. “When they let me out, I only had the rags I was wearing. I had no food and no place to sleep. A huge man in a blue cassock appeared in a downpour and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.”

“Father Ivanovich—Gennady—told me to call him Genya. He told me Jesus commanded him to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and visit men in prison. That was years ago.”

“Did he ever talk about his brother…my father?”

“He talked about a brother, a twin, who lived beyond the mountains to the East. He always had a wistful expression when he mentioned your father’s name. But ha, aren’t we Russians always depressed about something?” Kalya said, maybe hoping the remark might lessen the intensity.

With a deep sigh, Kayla continued. “Your Papa and Uncle believed in something beyond the church. They studied Karl Marx, who wrote something akin to something from the Bible.”

“I’m not religious, Kayla. What do you mean?”

“The Acts of the Apostles describes a similar idea of a communal system where goods were to be distributed according to need.

In the following days, Pasha dropped his reserve and began to tell Kalya everything. Something broke inside. The words poured out. He told Kalya about his guilt at killing his mother during his own birth. He lived with that accusation, fingers pointed at him every day in the village. He told Kalya about learning to avoid the fury of a man with too much drink, which seemed to be most of the time. He told Kalya he loved his father anyway.

“In the end, Papa gave me a map and directions to escape.” When he was finished talking g, he was shaking, Kalya resting a hand gently on Pasha’s shoulder.

They sat on the starboard side railing. It was quiet as the boat drifted downstream, occasionally bumping a log or objects in the water.

“Genya – you uncle – told me about their early years. The church decided. One would become a priest, the other to remain in Odilsk.”

“I had no idea,” Pasha said. “Papa never mentioned such a story, and my grandparents were dead when I was born.”

The boat shifted in the current. A light breeze kept mosquitoes at bay.

“Your father carried out his part of the bargain. Since your uncle was born minutes first, your father told the priests to take the eldest brother.”

“Was that true?”

“Does it make any difference? Your Papa fell in love with your mother and merely shrugged the choice off.” Kalya stopped as if to choose the correct words. “The best day of his life was the day you were born. The worst came two days later when your mother died, wrapped in blood-soaked blankets.”

“How do you know all this?”

Waiting for an answer, Pasha looked around. The barge was 18 meters long by six meters wide. It was built with a flat bottom, especially for the river. The hold and cabin occupied the center, allowing them to talk while strolling around the deck.

Pasha watched the man at the bow using a tall pole to keep the barge from the riverbank. The oarsman was a hoary-looking man with white hair. After several laps around the barge with Kalya, Pasha got a nod in return as they passed.

“I visited your village from time to time, meeting with your father,” Kayla finally said. “I watched you grow. I watched you play, then take on the work of a man.” Kalya took a deep breath. “There’s much to explain. In a few hours, we will reach the next dock. Three men and a woman will join, and your education will begin. We will talk more when we’re all together. For now, sleep, my young Comrade.”

“I want to hear more about my uncle and father. I want to know why you were in our village.”

“Soon, Pasha. I will tell you soon.”

Pasha may have slept. He wasn’t sure. His life’s past and future merged in the layers between sleep and awake, that twilight area in which neither sleep nor awake exists. Yet, it was a place where he noticed things off to the side, where certain truths reside and can be glimpsed.

In the early morning light, Pasha stood on the deck the following day, head tilted back, breathing in the fresh air. He sensed footsteps.

“Dobroye utro, good morning, young Pasha.” Kalya handed out a mug, steam rising in the morning chill. “Strong tea, krepkiy chay, fitting on a morning like this.”

The two sipped their drinks as Pasha stretched his shoulders back to ease the tightness. “I was thinking during the night, Kalya. My father? Why was he singled out and killed? My uncle went on to a life of sacrifice, helping the needy while my father stayed behind. And, how do you figure in my story?”

Kalya turned to the oarsman steering the boat. “How long until we pick up our passengers?”

Pasha turned. A man holding on to the steering oar was well over six feet, had broad shoulders, and solid muscle. The oarsman shaded his eyes from bright sunlight, squinted, and finally said, “When the sun is at the peak.”

A voice from the front of the barge shouted a warning. Kalya and Pasha raced to the port side and saw a barge pulled upstream by a team of men in harnesses.

“Study how hard they struggle, Pasha. No more than slaves, they are Buriaki, the barge haulers.”

Pasha watched as a bedraggled group of twelve men leaned forward into a harness, step-by-step pulling the barge against the current. “How can they do that?” Are they slaves or forced? Some kind of punishment?”

“Do they have a choice either way, I wonder? If paid, it’s only for a pittance, if that.”

It grew quiet after they floated past the groaning of the barge haulers. Pasha turned to watch the Kalya wiping tears from his eyes. “I want to tell you a story, comrade. Let me go to my bag and get us vodka.”

Kalya gathered his thoughts, then began. “Your father, your uncle, and I became part of a story much larger than any of us. It goes by many names. Marx and Engels probably never did an honest days’ labor. But they could write and speak. Oh, how they could write. They knew what was happening to workers the world over.”

Kalya went to the galley and brought more vodka and some biscuits.

“They wrote about wealthy rulers who said, you work, and I will reap the reward. Until we reach the docks of Perm, we’ll pass by the dachas and castles of the rich. They sit on their lawns and watch the Buriaki, the barge haulers, pulling with those brutal harnesses. They sip lemonade and plan the evening’s entertainment.

Kalya held up his arm, stabbing his fist in the air, shouting rude insults in earthy Russian as they passed one.

“The madness of this war to the west is unimaginable. Thousands are dying in a war fueled by bickering between cousins in Prussia, England, and Russia. Imagine all the incestuous blood flowing through their veins.

The royals and their toadies control the wealth. Ordinary people like you and me, and those unfortunate brothers and sisters pulling boats upstream. They want us to suckle at their teats, hoping some wealth will trickle down and feed us. But those teats have long gone dry, leaving us extracting nothing but air.”

Pasha realized his friend had stopped talking. “I heard Papa talk like that. Is that what he imagined too?”

“The two of us, you and me, can yet do something about it,” Kalya said. “We will meet three comrades at the next dock, and four more at the dock after that. There will be men and women at each dock until we reach Perm.”

“What will we do when we get there?”

“You will begin classes and lectures. We teach as we march. When we can, we will all join hundreds of others on trains to Moscow. Our final destination is Petrograd. Something grand is going to happen before long. You are the future, Comrade Pasha.”

This letter in my pocket? It’s a letter from my uncle to someone called Leon Trotsky. Petrograd? Trotsky?

“We will form party cells as more join us. It’s time to end the reign of Tzar Nicholas. The idea for such a revolution started with Marx, but unrest oozed came long before. Marx wrote, but our leaders are demanding action, even outright violence. There are underground networks of cells like ours all over Russia. We will be ready to answer when the call comes.”

Pasha listened intently.

“That letter you have for Trotsky is important. Your uncle is sending vital information. It’s coming soon, the revolution. Until then, swear to keep it secret.”

“I swear,” Pasha said, feeling his pulse rising.

“The European war has created a vacuum. The Tzar spends money on luxury while the economy is near collapse. Word is going out to us all asking us to gather for the great Bolshevik uprising.”

“Who are the leaders, Kalya. Are you a leader?”

“Vladimir Lenin and Alexander Bogdanov are the leaders, the men at the top. But Trotsky is the one organizing the rebellion in Petrograd. It will be a grand time for you and me to be there. Will you join me?” Kalya raised his hand in what would come to be known by Pasha as the Bolshevik salute.

He raised his hand, saluting Kalya in return.

“You will help me recruit and train others, comrade Pasha. Now, we need to finish our vodka. He filled two glasses, handing one to Pasha. “Tvoyemu dyade zhene, to your uncle Genya.”

Pasha reached for the bottle, refilling the glasses. “Moy tost za papu, to Papa.”

“Choot-choot, a little more,” Kalya roared. “smert’ tsaryu. Death to the Tzar.”

Pasha wasn’t sure he understood all he heard, but something inside told him it was necessary, as if – for the first time in his life – he had a reason to be.

In the nearly two years since leaving his uncle, Pasha’s life became a routing of recruiting, convincing, and training. He was good at it and was assigned minor leadership roles, surprised that men twice his age would listen and obey. Through all this, he pushed aside memories of home, his father, and his uncle.

Kalya noticed a change in Pasha, worried he was mechanically carrying out his duties without emotion, insensitive to those around him.

“I don’t care what anyone feels,” he told Kalya. “We do what is necessary to achieve our goal. What does feeling have to do with anything?”

Kalya noted in his diary, that Pasha was now someone void of emotions. Happy or sad were words seemingly without meaning to him. “A person like that has the characteristics of a killer, an assassin,” he wrote.

By the summer of 1917, Kalya, Pasha, and the others gathered in secret locations around Moscow. They began to make their way toward the rail yards in small groups. Workers and peasants jumped into open boxcars as trains slowly gained speed.

Watching from their train, passengers in opulent salon cars looked on in amusement.

“How quaint,” a woman told her traveling companion.

That wouldn’t be the word of choice for Pasha. Since leaving Moscow, he kept staring as if hypnotized by the lantern hanging from the roof as it swayed with the rocking of the freight car. Men and women stood shoulder to shoulder. With each mile, the stench of feces and urine spewed from each corner.

“Open the fucking door so we can breathe,” someone shouted.

A tall man wearing a workman’s hat opened the door, tiny specks of snow blowing in.

“Shut the fucking door. It’s fucking freezing,” a woman hollered

The man with the hat shrugged and closed the door.

Pasha elbowed his way past three men sharing a strong, hand-rolled cigarette. Opening a small window at eye level, he glanced out at passing a kaleidoscope of trees. He glimpsed leaves of bright yellow, burnt umber, dark brown. They were mixed with other stubborn leaves, refusing to surrender their green color.

“Comrade Kalya,” he yelled over the chattering. “It’s the autumn cycle.”

Kalya couldn’t hear, cupping his ear to improve his chances. He motioned Pasha to speak louder.

“The young comrade thinks it’s October,” a man said laughing.

“What use is a calendar for the likes of us?” a short woman said. “We know hot and cold. Not much in between,” laughing like a demented witch. “In Russia, we face more cold than hot.”

“Silence,” Kalya barked. His order was obeyed instantly. Kalya talked in a calm voice. “My aide, Comrade Pasha,” he said, pointing, “is a man of the forests. He knows the changing color of the trees signifies winter is coming. With winter, food becomes even more scarce. But he knows something even more important. After they change color, they soon drop to the ground, leaving trees naked.”

Kalya paused for emphasis. “But leaves grow anew from naked trees in the spring. Trees can be pruned when they are naked to help their renewal.

He raised his hand in a fist.

“Political winter will bring other changes, my comrades. The leaves of the Tzar’s trees are changing color. Soon he too will be naked like his trees. Then it will be our time to prune and prune we will. It will not be easy. Some of us will die. Some will be left crippled and lame. However, I can tell you that winds of change will not be stopped once set in motion. Next month the trees will be naked. It will be the same for the Tzar.”

Kalya paced and let the men and women absorb his words.

“Are you ready? Will we Bolsheviks arise as one? This is the chance to be part of something you will tell your children and grandchildren. That you were here.”

A young girl wrapping a blanket around her shabby dress struggled to her feet. With smears of dirt on her cheeks, strands of blond hair escaped from under her hat, making a rebellious statement of their own. In a quiet voice, others straining to hear, she began to sing.

“Get up, branded by the curse.

The whole world is hungry and slaves.

Our mind is boiling indignant

and ready to fight to the death . . .”

Other voices joined until everyone in the freight car sang The Internationale, the socialist anthem since 1864.

The singing ended, cheers and voices were raised, each pledging their lives to the Bolshevik movement.

A hush returned, a man quietly said, “I know the date.” He raised a notebook. “It’s nineteen-seventeen. The last day of October.”

Standing by the window, Pasha rubbed the harsh finish siding of the freight. “Like cattle to the slaughter,” he mumbled aloud as he felt the train slowing.

Asked later, he admitted he had no idea he would witness one of the major shiftings of the tectonic plates of geopolitics. On 17 November 1917, an event in Petrograd was about to cause massive social change. Ideologies would tremble, shift, and never be the same.

But that was still a month away, as doors were sliding open, men and women leaping from the still-moving rail car. Kalya rushed towards Pasha. “We’ve made it. Petrograd. I will ask for directions. I’m going to ask that yard worker,” his words trailing behind as he ran.

Pasha was content to stand, feeling the warm sun on his face. Savor this moment, he thought. Gray, cold winter skies would soon arrive.

His thinking was interrupted by the sound of shrill whistles piercing the air.

At the end of the train, he saw mounted police on massive horses charging into the crowd on his left. Following behind were men marching in uniforms, swinging cudgels, leaving bloody heads in their trail.

Frozen in place, Pasha realized it was a raid.

Someone informed the authorities we were on the train.

Men and women began picking up rocks and pieces of coal, throwing them at their attackers. It didn’t help.

Fearing for his life, Pasha dropped down onto the harsh stones lining the tracks. He scrambled under the train like a crab. On the other side, he stood, searching for a direction to run.

“I told you we would catch some cowards crawling under the train.” Pasha heard a deep voice nearby.

“Crawling like cockroaches.”

Pasha faced three men wearing leather coats standing less than a meter away with no place to run.

Okhrana?Who else can afford leather coats?

The three stood, feet apart, tapping their truncheons on their free hand. One moved to stand directly in front of Pasha. One to his left, the other to his right. There was no escape.

Pasha hunched his back as blow after blow punished him with blows landing on his back, arms, and head. Each blow from their truncheons created intense pain. He tasted the peculiar flavor of blood, streaming over his eyes, nose, and mouth.

“Enough. Stop,” the taller man said.

With a trained movement of the police, Pasha was locked in handcuffs and dragged to a nearby horse-drawn carriage. As one man held the door open, the second pushed the prisoner into the carriage. The leader watched, hands on hips, sneering.

He heard loud shouts coming from behind. Pasha managed to turn despite the pain. A considerable crowd of his comrades began to surround the three Okrahna agents.

Through the noise, he heard a familiar voice.

“Remove those handcuffs,” Kalya shouted at the agents arresting Pasha.

Pasha held his breath until he was freed from the handcuffs. As he followed Kalya away, a voice back by the carriage hissed like a serpent.