“So be it,” said his uncle. “Effective immediately, the regular cadets will continue to train with Instructor Brodinov. The elite group will train under the supervision of Alexei Orlov.”
THE NEXT DAY their elite training began. As soon as the cadets had assembled in two straight rows, Alexei told them the Cossack code: “The life of your friend is more important than your own. It is your duty to risk your life to save a comrade, and to defend the Tsar and the Church.”
He paused as they absorbed this—Sergei felt lifted to a place above his usual world—and then the atmosphere changed abruptly with Instructor Orlov’s next words: “Each of you must now pass an initiation. It may seem cruel, but it serves many useful purposes. You are about to suffer pain and injury. Each of you must choose whether to receive a deep knife cut or have your arm struck by a hammer with a force that may break it.
“You will be the first, Cadet Ivanov,” he announced. “The others will follow.” Sergei stepped forward, but hesitated before speaking. Confronted with two painful options, which was the best choice; which was the worst?
“Well,” said the Cossack. His voice was quiet, and patient—but persistent. “Which shall it be?”
Sergei thought a moment longer. Then he said, “I choose the blade.”
Immediately, but without pleasure or rancor, Alexei sliced open his arm. For an instant Sergei felt no pain—only the shock of watching the skin of his arm part to reveal the thin white layer of fat. Then the wound filled with blood, as the deep, throbbing pain began, and the blood ran down his arm and dripped to the earth.
“You two,” said Alexei, pointing to two of the older cadets. “I want one to stitch up Cadet Ivanov’s wound and the other to apply a field bandage. Do a clean job—you will soon have your turn.” He gestured toward a table with various bandages and splints and supplies. Galina, the old nurse, stood by to supervise. She told Sergei to drink two small glasses of vodka to help dull the pain. He did so—and wanted a third but could not bring himself to ask.
After the nurse sprinkled a powder into the gaping wound, she held his arm and watched an older cadet clumsily stitch his skin with a curved needle. Sergei turned away, clenched his teeth, and tried not to gasp or cry out each time the needle pierced his skin.
The throbbing pain had increased and the needle punctures made him wince, but he held on as Cadet Yegevny pulled the thin twine taut, drawing the edges of the wound tightly together. After what seemed an interminable few minutes, Sergei’s wound was covered with a bandage, and the pain faded to a deep ache.
“You’re a brave boy,” she said. He hardly heard her, distracted as he was by the continuing tests a few meters away. At least the worst was over for him.
Now every cadet stared in morbid fascination as the next boy, after seeing Sergei bleed, chose the hammer. He yelped then whimpered but did not faint when Alexei hit him with the hammer. They all heard a crack but couldn’t tell whether the bone had broken. The cadet came over, breathing rapidly, in great pain. Two other cadets applied a splint while the rest of the cadets observed.
They continued in this manner, with some choosing the knife and others the hammer. Andrei hated blood and chose the hammer. He cried out but gathered himself together once it was over. Zakolyev chose the knife and didn’t even flinch. In fact, he smiled throughout.
One of the cadets had declined to take the test. Alexei told him, with formal courtesy, to return to Brodinov’s group. Soon a line of eleven pain-racked cadets remained, standing at the medical station. Most drank the vodka and, like Sergei, wanted more.
At the end Alexei called them all together and said with great formality and respect, as if each had leaped across a chasm that separated them from the other cadets: “Sometimes words alone cannot teach. Each of you has received an injury, as you might in combat. The wounds will heal. Meanwhile, learn from your body. Will yourself to heal quickly. Continue to function despite your injuries, as you would have to do in battle.
“This was not a lighthearted exercise,” he continued, “and I do not enjoy inflicting damage. But it was necessary. Now you’ve experienced a small degree of the pain that you, as soldiers, will inflict on the enemy when necessary. This is the ugly reality of battle. Never forget that it is better to wound ten men than kill one. The wounded require more care and slow the enemy, and I tell you this for higher reasons as well.
“Wounds may heal, and a soldier can return to his family, but death is permanent, and an adversary’s soul rests heavily upon your conscience. So kill an enemy only when there is no other way. Now return to your rooms until your next class and think about what I’ve told you.”
The cadets were issued pants with a red stripe down the sides, just like the officers. As the eleven walked back toward their respective barracks, Sergei noticed a certain camaraderie among them, forged by the common bond of having endured this painful lesson together. Only Zakolyev walked alone—ahead of the others.
One of the older cadets had taken a bottle of vodka from one of the instructors—a daring act. Now, as a show of trust and bravado, he shared it with the others. They passed around the bottle, and Sergei got drunk, and funny, and sick. Later he found himself craving more, but there was no more to be had. Then Sergei remembered that his father had drunk himself to death, and he wondered if there was something in his blood too.
His wound healed within a few weeks, but he would have a scar to remind him of the day he became one of the elite.
Soon after, their special unit had to go without food for seven days, with no water either for the last two days. The purpose of this, according to Instructor Orlov, was multifaceted. “First,” he said, “you will overcome the instinctive fear of not eating, so that if you are cut off during a battle, it will be of little consequence to you whether or not you have food. Second, occasional fasting purifies the body and strengthens the constitution.”
“Third,” whispered one of the cadets, “not feeding us saves the school money.” Several of the other cadets stifled laughs. But no one was laughing by the end of the first day. They all felt ravenous, and not in the best of spirits the second day either, when another cadet dropped out, so ten remained. They were assigned extra work and training during this period—their lack of food was no excuse to rest or slack off.
During those seven days Sergei and the others experienced periods of lassitude alternating with a sense of lightness and higher energy. The last two days without water were the hardest. They ended the fast with purifying rituals involving a kind of second baptism. “You become elite soldiers through elite training,” Alexei reminded them. “One day some of you may make the shift from soldiers to warriors, like the three hundred Spartan Skiritai of ancient times who held the pass at Thermopylae for three days against three hundred thousand invading Persian soldiers.”
“What happened to them?” asked one of the other boys.
“They all died,” said the Cossack.
.9.
SERGEI FELT EVERYTHING quickening—his thoughts, desires, his mind and body. He moved into the men’s quarters, where Zakolyev, now nineteen, was a senior cadet. Meanwhile, Sergei’s training with Alexei continued in firearms, camouflage, field medicine, winter survival, and hand-to-hand combat.
A few weeks later the elite instructor announced, “Today we will practice choke holds and escapes. When your partner tries to strangle you, do what you can to escape without inflicting serious damage to your fellow cadet. Explore possibilities. Find out what works, and what doesn’t. When you are choking your practice partner, he will not be able to speak, so he will slap his hand on his leg to signal you to release the choke immediately. Otherwise, he will pass out…but if you hold it too long, you might just kill him. So do not hold a choke after your partner has slapped!”
Near the end of the day, Zakolyev chose Sergei as his partner. The moment Zakolyev’s arms wrapped around his neck, Sergei couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. As the choke tightened, Sergei’s head felt like it w
as exploding. Spots floated before his eyes. He slapped his thigh once, then again, as he was sucked down into a maelstrom of panic, an encroaching darkness.
Finally Zakolyev released the hold. Sergei collapsed to a sitting position, semiconscious. He looked up to see Zakolyev staring at him. “What’s that around your neck?” asked the senior cadet.
“N-nothing,” Sergei answered, furious at himself for having forgotten to remove the locket beforehand. A moment’s carelessness, and there would be hell to pay.
“Let me see it,” Zakolyev said casually.
Zakolyev had a way of asking for things that made it seem unreasonable, even silly, to deny him. Sergei almost found his hand reaching for the clasp before he came to his senses. “No,” he said. “It’s personal.” Zakolyev shrugged and walked away to work with another cadet.
With a few final comments, Alexei ended the class and departed. All of the cadets, except for a few still practicing, filed out of the practice room. Anxious to find a few moments alone, Sergei was turning to follow his departing classmates when he heard Zakolyev’s chilling voice close behind him. “Now you can show me your little treasure.”
Sergei knew instantly that Zakolyev didn’t merely want to just see it; he wanted to possess it. “Like I said—it’s private. I want to keep it that way.”
As Sergei turned to leave, Zakolyev’s right arm again wrapped around his neck; the other locked behind his head. Sergei willed himself to fight the panic, to breathe, but there was no breath, only an agony of pressure bursting in his head. Through the gathering darkness he caught a final glimpse of a few of the straggling cadets, who glanced in their direction then turned and walked away, thinking that they were still practicing. But this was no practice—Zakolyev could kill him.
As the light faded from his mind, Sergei experienced a flickering premonition, an image of his lifeless body sprawled on the floor. Then blackness.
WHEN HE CAME TO, Zakolyev was gone. So was the locket.
From that moment on, Sergei became obsessed with reclaiming the locket. Zakolyev would not, could not, be allowed to steal Sergei’s only tangible connection to his parents.
The two were not scheduled to train together for a few days. So Sergei searched in the senior barracks, on the grounds, and behind the classrooms where Zakolyev would smoke and drink—but could not find him.
Sergei’s concentration suffered; he could think of nothing else but taking back what was his.
Three days later he caught up with the senior and confronted him. “Give it back!” Sergei shouted, the anger burning in his belly.
A few other early arrivals circled around, drawn in by the unfolding drama.
“Give back what?” Zakolyev said calmly, apparently amused.
“You know what.”
Zakolyev smiled that hateful smile. “Oh, you mean that little girl’s trinket you had around your neck?”
“Give it to me…now!” he said, his voice a growl.
“I told you…I don’t have it.”
“You’re a liar!”
Zakolyev studied him as he might observe a bug, intrigued that Sergei the Good, nearly four years his junior, was crazy enough to make such demands. Still, the boy would have to be punished—
Sergei’s kick caught Zakolyev unaware, snapping his knee to the side. Zakolyev let his knee give way and twisted his body to trap Sergei’s leg, forcing him to the ground. Now the muscular senior sat on Sergei’s chest and methodically started pounding on his face.
Sergei’s hands came up protectively as the blows rained down, and he managed to strike back once. Using his fingers as a spear, Sergei thrust them into Zakolyev’s eye, infuriating him.
Just then Brodinov showed up and broke them apart. But not before Zakolyev had broken Sergei’s nose, loosened some teeth, and cracked his cheekbone, sending him to the infirmary.
The next day Sergei peered through eyes swollen almost shut to see Andrei kneeling by his bedside. In an excited whisper, Andrei reported, “Zakolyev has a black eye and a limp. It was a brave but foolish thing to do, Sergei. I heard Zakolyev tell some older cadets that if you ever troubled him again, you might have a serious accident.
“And that’s not all: There’s a rumor that one of the other cadets saw Zakolyev choke you after class and take the locket. Somehow the instructors heard about it,” Andrei added, smiling. “Brodinov demanded that Zakolyev return the locket, but Zakolyev insisted he didn’t have it. They know he’s probably lying, but no one can prove anything, and no cadet would step forward to accuse him. Zakolyev has to sit in detention all his spare time as long as you’re in the infirmary. Now he’s been punished like any other cadet; it’s out in the open. Some say that he’s going to be expelled.”
Then Andrei’s elation vanished. “I think you’ve made a bad enemy, Sergei. But I’ll watch your back.”
“And I’ll watch yours,” Sergei managed to reply. He felt no elation at Zakolyev’s punishment or satisfaction in Zakolyev’s shame. It would only make things worse; he would never return the locket now.
SERGEI SLEPT and daydreamed through the rest of the day. But that night he awakened from a deep sleep to find Alexei the Cossack standing nearby in the shadows. He was dressed not in the school uniform, but rather in his Cossack garb—the way he had first appeared years before, when he rode into the compound to bring news of the death of Tsar Aleksandr II. For a moment Sergei thought he was seeing an apparition.
Then Alexei spoke, and Sergei knew he was awake. “Practice holding your breath, so you will not be concerned about lack of air. It’s not the lack of air that causes blackout; it’s the pressure of depleted blood. So if you are ever choked again,” he whispered, “relax completely—it will give you twenty or thirty seconds.”
Alexei looked up and away for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “Life can be hard, Sergei, so you must be harder. But remember too that softness can overcome rigidity. A river can cut through stone. It only takes time. All you need is a little more time…”
Alexei added, “You did a brave thing, confronting Dmitri Zakolyev. Your father was also a brave man…a good man, as you will become…Yet I don’t think you are destined to become a soldier.”
Hearing his last words, Sergei felt a pang of deep disappointment, but then Alexei smiled at him as one might smile at a friend. And before Sergei could say anything, or thank the Cossack for his guidance, Alexei Orlov stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
THE NEXT MORNING Andrei returned to Sergei’s bedside with the news: “Alexei the Cossack is gone! He had to report back immediately to the palace, and he left before dawn. Instructor Brodinov will continue our training. Chief Instructor Ivanov conveyed to us Instructor Orlov’s farewell and regards. Then he said—let me see if I can remember—he said, ‘This is a soldier’s life. People appear and disappear. Comrades may fall in battle right next to us, but we must continue without missing a step.’ After that he dismissed us until the afternoon—that’s how I could come to see you.” Andrei paused. “You know, I think the chief instructor will miss Instructor Orlov.”
Not as much as I will, thought Sergei.
.10.
ON A BITTER COLD DAY in January, 1888, Sergei was released from the infirmary. Still intent on recovering his locket, he considered his options. He realized the futility of another confrontation; if he again challenged Zakolyev, he would likely get beaten again. Or he might get lucky and hurt the older cadet. Either way, Zakolyev would not tell him where he had hidden the locket.
The wisest thing he could do was to watch and wait. As Alexei had said, some things take time and patience. But he would not forget. Sergei knew he had made a formidable enemy. But then, so had Zakolyev.
Another change had occurred since that night Alexei had visited. A part of Sergei’s dedication had departed with the Cossack. He now felt a growing sense of detachment, as if he were an observer rather than a participant in the life around him.
In the coming months he sp
ent more time alone, in the quiet of his uncle’s library. He would turn the globe on his desk, letting his fingers drift to the north, south, east, and west.
Soon after the spring thaw Sergei was sitting in the library reading the dialogues of Socrates when the strangest thing happened: Out of nowhere, a vivid image appeared in his mind—a rough-hewn face with a nose that looked as if it had been broken, chin and cheeks covered with a beard, and coarse, curly hair. Yet the face had an air of strength and integrity, with eyes that reminded Sergei of thunder and lightning.
Then Sergei heard the words, “I am a citizen not of Athens or of Greece but of the world…” In a flash Sergei realized that this vision was none other than Socrates himself. The apparition spoke only six words before it vanished: “A new world…to the west…”
Then all was quiet. Sergei was back in his uncle’s library at the Nevskiy Military School. He had no idea what had happened or why. He did not believe that the spirit of the Greek philosopher had actually visited or spoken to him. After all, the words were not in Greek but in his own language. Yet the words came from somewhere…What new world? Where to the west? Sergei recalled something that Andrei had told him years before, after they had met: “I wasn’t born in Russia, but in a land to the west, across the sea…in a place called America.”
Perhaps my own mind created his face and drew forth these words. But why? Sergei thought. He looked once more in the book, hoping for another vision. Finally, he replaced the book on the shelf and was turning to go when something caught his eye—a letter lying askew on his uncle’s desk. Curious, Sergei stole a glance:
NOTICE:
To Vladimir Borisovich Ivanov,
Chief Instructor, Nevskiy Military School:
In one week’s time, a garrison of soldiers will pass your school on the way south to the Pale of Settlement for Jewish duty. All seniors and elite cadets will join this garrison for three months. This field experience will prepare your cadets for duties to come. Remind them they act in the name of the Tsar, the Holy Church, and Mother Russia.