Speshnev: Reap the Whirlwind

By Michael Sandusky

The Speshnev family saga continues with this true story. Nikolai spends his 10 years in Siberia and is finally released only to see his son get caught up in the assault and starvation of Paris and his other son go to work for the Tsar. The Romanov family experience assassinations, affairs, charlatans and medical difficulties as they attempt to govern the country. Nikolai Lenin continues to study, espouse and push the teachings of Karl Marx while Lena begins her cross country search to find her lover Nikolai and Natalyn his actress granddaughter is captured by Bolsheviks during the first revolution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369411292

Michael Sandusky

Michael Sandusky is the quintessential story-telling romantic. His fifty years of writing novels, short stories, poetry, self-help books and newspaper columns have been read and enjoyed the world over. He loves deep-sea fishing, traveling to exotic locales, cooking and public speaking relating thrilling, funny and poignant stories about his adventures, narrow escapes and interpersonal relationships. He still believes that the best stories cannot be made up, but come from actual human experience. He can be reached at [e-mail]

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Copyright © 2023 by Michael Sandusky.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 11/10/2023

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

Chapter Fifty Three

Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Five

Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Seven

Chapter Fifty Eight

Chapter Fifty Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty One

Chapter Sixty Two

Chapter Sixty Three

Chapter Sixty Four

Chapter Sixty Five

Chapter Sixty Six

Chapter Sixty Seven

Chapter Sixty Eight

Chapter Sixty Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy One

Chapter Seventy Two

Chapter Seventy Three

Chapter Seventy Four

Chapter Seventy Five

Chapter Seventy Six

Chapter Seventy Seven

Chapter Seventy Eight

Chapter Seventy Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty One

Chapter Eighty Two

Chapter Eighty Three

Chapter Eighty Four

Chapter Eighty Five

Chapter Eighty Six

Chapter Eighty Seven

Chapter Eighty Eight

Chapter Eighty Nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety One

Chapter Ninety Two

Chapter Ninety Three

Chapter Ninety Four

Chapter Ninety Five

Chapter Ninety Six

Chapter Ninety Seven

Chapter Ninety Eight

Chapter Ninety Nine

Chapter One Hundred

Chapter One Hundred One

Chapter One Hundred Two

Chapter One Hundred Three

Chapter One Hundred Four

Chapter One Hundred Five

Chapter One Hundred Six

Chapter One Hundred Seven

Chapter One Hundred Eight

Chapter One Hundred Nine

Chapter One Hundred Ten

Chapter One Hundred Eleven

Chapter One Hundred Twelve

Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

Chapter One Hundred Fourteen

Chapter One Hundred Fifteen

Chapter One Hundred Sixteen

Chapter One Hundred Seventeen

Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

Chapter One Hundred Nineteen

Chapter One Hundred Twenty

Chapter One Hundred Twenty One

Chapter One Hundred Twenty Two

Chapter One Hundred Twenty Three

Chapter One Hundred Twenty Four

Chapter One Hundred Twenty Five

Chapter One Hundred Twenty Six

Chapter One Hundred Twenty Seven

Bibliogaphy

Other Works by Michael Sandusky

Flight from Destiny

Psalmwriter: The Chronicles of David Book I

Psalmwriter: The Chronicles of David Book II

Psalmwriter: The Chronicles of David Book III

Bathsheba’s Eyes

Psalmwriter: The Chronicles of David Book IV

Sins of the Father

Psalmwriter: The Chronicles of David Book V

Journey’s End

Psalmwriter: The Chronicles of David Book VI

Determining Your Destiny

Wait Training

Wounded Wanderer

I Rode the Wings of the Dawn to the Farthest Oceans

Hilary’s Secret

Out of Time

Lost

Shanghai

King

Chandragupta Maurya

Speshnev

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Nikolai Speshnev by unknown

(Source: Speshnev Family archives)

INTRODUCTION

W HILE THE PATRIARCH of our American family, Nikolai Speshnev, was serving his ten year sentence in exile in a Siberian prison for insurrection and the attempted overthrow of the Russian government, he did not have access to the New York Tribune.

The London correspondent of the New York Tribune in that decade of 1851-1860 was a thick-necked, barrel-chested, black bearded short-legged German Jew named Karl Heinrich Marx who lived with a wife and six small children in a couple of rooms at 28 Dean Street Soho. He got a guinea an article. When his daughter Francisca died in 1852 he had to beg money for her burial.

Financially, he was at the other end of the spectrum of Speshnev, whose father had owned estates and employed peasants; all of which were of no use or value to him at the current time.

Marx was very poor, even though his wife was the daughter of the Baroness von Westphalen. However the Tribune was astute enough to observe that he was a man of considerable erudition.

He was a graduate of Bonn and Berlin with a dissertation on Epicurus to his credit. However, because of his subversive writing in the Rheinische Zeitung the Germans had forbade him to edit or write anything else. He was acquitted of high treason in Cologne in 1848 for his expressed public opinions, but that was not enough to keep the Germans from banishing him from Germany and the French from kicking him out of Paris in 1849.

He was one of two authors of an insignificant little pamphlet called Communist Manifesto. As for communism, what was communism? It was just a word; something that Mr. Amos Bronson Alcott, father of Louisa May, had been interested in up at Fruitlands in Harvard Massachusetts.

While Nikolai Speshnev languished away in the katorga of a steel plant at the end of the earth for the crimes of urging the people to revolt and stand up to the Tsar, Marx was up at eight or nine in the morning. He drank a cup of hot black coffee, looked at the newspapers and went to work in a room of considerable disorder where everything was in its place. Occasionally and reluctantly he stopped for meals, eating smoked fish and ham and pickles and anything else that would stir an appetite which had no natural existence.

Speshnev came back to his prison exhausted after pulling his duty in the steel mill. The room was cold, filthy and filled with degenerates for the most part. Other than a few of the others convicted with him from the Petrashevski Circle, he had no friends.

His letters to his mother occurred with luck about once a year or more. After a while he was able to sneak in, illegally of course, the works that he had requested. Among others these included Tegoborski’s Essaie sur les forces productive de la Russie, Solovyov’s Russkaya Istoria, Karamzin’s Istoria, (with all the footnotes), Grote, A history of Greece, A History of Rome, Niebuhr’s Romische Geschichte, Bunsen’s AEgyptians Weltstelle in der Geschichte and Roth’s Geschichte der Philosophie.

Meanwhile, in London, Marx worked all day long and until two or three in the morning when he went to bed. He smoked cigars, lighting one from the end of the other and burning matches like kindling in the process. His relaxation was largely on an old leather-covered lounge reading Aeschylus in Greek and Shakespeare in English and such writers as Paul de Kock, Charles Lever, Dumas Pere, Walter Scott and Balzac as well as Cervantes and Fielding.

He knew Shakespeare by heart. He had an extraordinarily vigorous and accurate memory trained on Hegel’s plan of memorizing poetry in an unfamiliar tongue.

We have here two entirely different men, yet so alike.

Marx finished his Communist Manifesto at age 29 based on a tract written by Friedrich Engels in Germany. It was published in 1848 after Nikolai Speshnev, age 27, had returned to Russia from his travels in Europe. It begins:

A spectre is haunting Europe – the spectre of communism.

It ends with Workers of all lands, unite!

It is the single most important piece of foreign-language printing ever produced in Britain.

In spite of that Nikolai Lenin considered Nikolai Speshnev’s contribution and that of the Petrashevski Circle as something even greater, although of a different character.

The history of the socialist intelligentsia in Russia began with the Petrashevski Circle.

Before Marxism ie. communism could be even considered, there had to be a foundation of discontent and an element of change in the autocratic world of the Tsar. Doesn’t sound anything like communism, right?

That’s right, for you see Karl Heinrich Marx was not the inventor of communism. His importance lies in the fact that he made explicit a trend in human affairs. Capitalistic society, he believed must necessarily lead to the destruction of that society. Political authority must be seized by wage earners. He believed that the prime force in social history was economics.

However, he was ahead of his time. He was too early. Economics would not be a source of contention or even importance until the industrial revolution of the 1880’s. That was the most inventive time in human history. There were two things that would shape the world to come more than anything else – electricity and the internal combustion engine.

If there were issues in economics then there would be issues with class struggle. Marx felt that then there would be contradictions and strivings because of economics and it would lead to a class struggle.

He died in 1883 before he could see any real realization of his theory in action. Speshnev died a year earlier, but his contributions to the need to overthrow the Tsar had already resulted in multiple assassinations, bombs and even changes, most for the better in Russian laws.

If you have ever read, along with me, Tolstoy’s War and Peace you will understand why it is the kind of thousand page novel that editors hate. They say that readers today only have enough attention span for a 300 page book – not 1000 pages or even 550 pages like this one. However, sometimes it just takes time to get through a good story and that is when writers just don’t care. This exciting story of our American family’s Russian and revolutionary roots is not only a good story, but a compelling read to all hours of the night or morning. It’s not that I think you are incapable of reading anything more than 300 pages, but 550 pages each of three books are natural places to interrupt the story.

The city of Petersburg and its environs have changed, but the weather has not. September and October are said to be the worst months of the year. A raw damp wind blows in from the Gulf of Finland, fog and rain follow one another in a depressing succession of days, and everywhere mud and slush lie underfoot. It is dark by three in the afternoon and the cold night continues until ten in the morning.

Lots of volumes of War and Peace were read during these times.

It’s a good story and so is this one.

Nikolai Speshnev was a leader in instigating revolutionary thought in the last volume. In this one he, his sons and wives and grandchildren will reap the whirlwind of those earlier actions that did not just cease with his ten years in prison.

His family will find that they have inherited the most epochal and far-reaching political event of the modern era.

I mentioned in the first volume of Speshnev why I had undertaken the story of this American family. I did not realize the amount of research that it would entail. Just having the family’s copies of Speshnev’s letters from prison excited me.

This volume turned out to be even more laborious. There were many nights and into the hours of the morning when I sat, staring blank-faced at my word processor, with my agent’s words ringing in my ears: Nobody is interested in the Russian Revolution. The book will be difficult to find readers.

Ah, but remember, everyone likes a good story and here are several stories.

The woman who gives up all to travel to the ends of earth to be with her imprisoned lover. The son who finds himself trapped behind the walls of Paris when the enemy surrounds it. How can a Speshnev survive when only zoo animals are left to eat? The lives, deaths and affairs of four Romanov Tsars and the birth of a hemophiliac child. The prosecution as the Tsar’s lead attorney by our illustrious, yet rebellious son, that sends Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin and others to their Siberian prisons and exile. The long journey of a man and his wife while framing the mechanics of a revolution.

Gypsies, thieves, assassinations, sex, war, love, cold, heroic men and women…and evil.

Like I said, everyone likes a good story.

CHAPTER ONE

W HEN I FIRST met Alexei I had just moved into a small, but comfortable apartment in Moscow not far from the western wall. Nikolskaya Street was a busy thoroughfare for horses and carriages and occasional horseless carriages. There were a few of these things that frankly were loud and smelled. Alexei and I both lived on Charkassky Lane which was an offshoot of the bigger and busier street. We both had dogs and walked them in the morning and evening. Mine was a little mutt with long floppy ears that easily dragged on the ground at times. He had adopted me a year earlier in Petersburg. His was a big wolfhound that I think was a bit too much for him to handle. Apparently size makes no difference in dog romances.

I still marvel at how these dogs can communicate by just smelling each other’s rear end.

Well, at least yours smells mine. Mine just smells yours feet. That is a beautiful wolfhound, I added truthfully. Do you live in one of these apartments?

Yes, about two blocks away. This is the first time that I have seen you. Are you new to here or new to the dog?

Both! I laughed. I just moved here from Petersburg.

Ah, I have a home in Petersburg…in fact grew up there.

Alexei Speshnev as he would later introduce himself appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. The information that he would eventually provide led me to believe that his home was in the vicinity of the winter palace.

What brings you here?

I am a counselor. Moscow will be where I practice.

Ah…then you were trained in Petersburg.

That is correct.

Other than a few meetings on the street he took no especial notice of me. However he never forgot a face and occasionally we would meet in other places, cordially shake hands, but still not take any effort to further our acquaintance.

One day our dogs arranged a meeting again.

I would like to invite you to lunch…Café Sirena. Thursday…shall we say two o’clock?

I was not expecting an invitation so was at a loss as to any answer so I replied in the affirmative without really thinking.

His intent was to learn more of my notoriety. I say that as humbly as I can. My success in Moscow had brought to me many new friends. I was asked back to Petersburg to teach a course and ran into him on the Avenue. He asked where I was staying and in a day or two I received another invitation to lunch, but this time to his home. When I arrived I was surprised to see that it was a party of considerable distinction.

After the guests had departed, we retired to the library. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

This was my mother’s house…well actually she was the woman who raised me.

She was your nanny?

In all reality, she was my aunt. I think that she started out to be my nanny. My mother had died and my father asked her to raise me while he was away.

Was he in the military?

He did not answer my question.

Her name was Lena. Polish. We all had nannies in those days….

When he mentioned that, I knew that he had come from aristocracy or at least nobility.

But I took her to be my mother. She and grandmamma were the only women that I knew in my life until I married. I don’t remember my birth mother. No one ever spoke much of her, but that she died in my infancy. My brother Nikolai doesn’t remember her either. Have I mentioned Nikolai to you? I suppose not. He’s my older brother…two years older.

The four of you lived here in this house?

Well, yes some of the time. Actually it was Lena’s.

It was too nice a house for a nanny to own. I wasn’t getting the entire story.

I know what you’re thinking. Lena inherited it from her sister who was my birth mother. Grandmamma mentioned to me a number of years ago while she was alive, that a terrible crime had happened here and she never did like the place where her grandsons were being raised. I’m not so sure that she liked Lena. Oh I shouldn’t put it like that. Perhaps ‘love’ is a better word. She told me that Lena’s sister, my birth-mother’s husband had been found murdered here. Lena was dead when Grandmamma informed me of that ghastly detail so I could not ask her anything about it.

Did your father ever say anything about it?

Grandmamma owned several farms in the steppes. They eventually went the way with the serfs being freed, but she came out alright.

With that he thanked me for coming and asked when I was going back to Moscow and then I was ushered out into the dark. Over the next two years we developed a friendship that was…well it was not really intimate, but it was more than an acquaintance.

Alexei was helpful, obliging and generous. It caused him pleasure to give as I observed. He was hospitable and invited me to dinner at least three times during those years. He had a chef who was quite good. His wine was proof of his good judgment.

Most of the land of Russia spoke Russian, but he had been taught Polish by Lena and French by his grandmamma. He was fluent and correct with the perfect accent. Most likely he could have been useful in Nicholas’ Court. Perhaps he was too old for that now.

He was a good talker, but as I noticed over time, he never spoke disparagingly of the Tsar or the government really. He was certainly disheartened when he learned as we all did that we had lost the war with Japan at Port Arthur.

He was a zealous Orthodox Christian although he was not always so.

I was told that my father was an atheist…that’s what I was told, but my grandmamma would not have me going down that road. She instilled into me the tenets of the faith. I suppose I owe her for my French and my Christianity, he laughed.

He spoke of the faith with wisdom and benignity, but it was obvious that he was broad-minded, modern and even tolerant at times.

It was the second day of January of that year 1905 when we agreed to have an early dinner at a hotel on Tverskaja Street in Moscow.

I would be a liar if I said that I was not nervous about going out in the evening. There had been a number of demonstrations throughout the city. Nevertheless, to my surprise, he met me at my apartment.

I thought it might be safer if I came to get you, he said as we greeted each other. It’s early yet. We might walk part of the way, he suggested. There was more than a nip in the air. I pulled my coat collar up higher as we walked, stretching our legs.

This mutiny in Cronstadt is not good, he grimaced. Sailors running around the city and shooting it up gives people ideas.

The man walking with me was intelligent, kind and cultivated, but I could see that he was concerned about things happening not just in Port Arthur or Cronstadt, but in Moscow also.

The Tsar will take care of things, I said, weakly.

Yes, he always does.

Towards the end of the first course of wine he laid a leather pouch onto the table.

Over the past two years I have observed you, not only on our block but in the courts here. You are making a name for yourself and for that I am glad for you. The law can be a faithful wife at times and at others…a bitch. I hope you will pardon me for being so bold, but I am so for a reason.

He wiped his mouth and fingered his mustache before continuing.

I would like to ask you to handle my affairs.

I was surprised.

Me? You are a counselor and certainly capable of doing so yourself. I am honored, but curious as to why you are asking me. I need to know everything, you know. It’s my job! I laughed.

Yes it is. He returned the laugh. I appreciate you saying that. He lifted the crystal glass to his lips and took a sip. Frankly…you are what…thirty years younger than me? I need to make sure that my wishes are carried out correctly and safely after I am gone. You know as well as I, that the court can take different views of things.

You expect a battle with the courts or with the heirs?

Let us hope that it is not with the heirs. I have a daughter. Here, take a look at this. He pushed the brief towards me. I picked it up and undid the leather string tied with a loop through the flap.

It showed considerable holdings of land that had been given to him by his grandmamma. There were other names mentioned, but the one that stood out to me was Nikolai Alexandrovich Speshnev.

Who is Nikolai Alexandrovich Speshnev?

That was my father.

Ah, the verboten subject.

How does he tie into this? It appears that most of your holdings are being given to your daughter or to your brother.

He was the manager of his father’s farms. He cleared his throat. His mother, my grandmamma, and he owned several in the steppes, one near Kyiv and one not too far from here. I need you to make sure that my daughter gets what is hers.

I laid the papers down and looked at him. There should not be a problem if everything was in order.

I need to know everything, Counselor, I smiled.

I waited. He took another sip and just looked at me. Then he looked away before turning his attention to me again.

Tsar Nicholas…the first Nicholas took most of those holdings away.

Hmm. Now this was getting confusing.

Why?

He sent my father to prison…for ten years.

Why?

He was a political prisoner. My father was an anarchist. He was part of what was known at the time as the Petrashevski Circle.

Now we were getting someplace. All of we students had studied the laws broken in the uprising of the Decembrists and the planned insurrection of the Petrashevski Circle.

So what happened to your father? Did Nicholas return the lands to the family?

My father served his time in Siberia and yes, eventually the farms were returned to Grandmamma.

So…there should not be a problem.

We are watched, Misha. We may be being watched as we sit here. They watch me and my children. They think we have disloyalty and revolution running through our veins…and all because of my father. It was Alexander that freed him…the second Alexander. Grandmamma told me that they were friends at one time.

I don’t think that there is any foreseeable problem or issue here, as I turned through the pages.

Misha…this is Russia. It is important that you take care of my family after I am gone.

We both jumped when an explosion rocked the dining room. Everyone rushed to the windows as another loud bang was heard. There were troops coming down the boulevard. Another explosion sounded.

It looks like someone is throwing explosives off of our building or one close by, said Alexei. Perhaps we should leave.

You’re not going out that front door are you? A volley of gunfire answered that question.

Of course not. Those troops are shooting at something and who knows what is falling off of the buildings. We will go out the back. Here, take this. He handed the pouch to me. I have a copy and we will get together again to meet Natalyn and Nikolai when it is convenient.

The next explosion bounced us off of our feet and onto the floor. There was a rush for the rear exit and then into the alley. Alexei and I ran to the east hoping for a cab on Gowaski. What had I gotten myself into? I was dealing with a criminal’s estate. What had happened to this Nikolai Alexandrovich Speshnev? I would need to go back to the books and the records in the courts not only in Petersburg, but in Siberia…wherever he had been held.

In spite of the crush of people running down the alley, bumping into and jostling each other, I could not get him out of my mind. That incident had to have happened over fifty years ago.

Whatever happened to Nikolai Alexandrovich Speshnev?

CHAPTER TWO

T HE FRAIL, BEDRAGGLED and dirty members of the Petrashevski Circle had eluded execution on that cold December morning. Once again Nicholas had triumphed in keeping Russia from the turmoil of anarchy and revolution. Europe was in chaos. The People’s spring of 1848 had birthed revolutions in nearly all of the European countries. It had started in Sicily and then spread to Italy. Soon Austria, Germany and Hungary had joined the fray. France, of course, would be remiss to not rebel against Louis Philippe.

Russia was different. Russia had a Father who was looked upon as being just that. A father loves his children, cares for them and watches out for them. He disciplines them when necessary. A father wants no harm to come to his children, so, in this case, he withholds news of the rest of the world and even stops the entry of foreigners who might have news of the ideas that are being debated on the other side of the border.

Nikolai Speshnev had traveled throughout Europe and had returned to his native Russia, to Petersburg before the People’s spring had even fomented. He had sat with many Polish fighters, German thinkers, French intellectuals and other college educated philosophers who desired change in their countries. The reasons were varied. Italy didn’t like the Austrians, Poland didn’t like the Germans and the French didn’t like Louis Philippe. The French did not really like anything. They were like a two-year old child who has no idea what he wants. He just wants something.

Nicholas faced his first uprising before he even took the throne. After his brother Alexander had died mysteriously in the Crimea, Constantine, the next in line was supposed to be the heir. However, unbeknown to everyone, he had renounced the throne in a letter to his brother some years earlier. As a result Nicholas, the third brother was the rightful heir, being next in line. This was not an easy transition for many, especially in the military, did not believe that he should be on the throne. Those who had been around him, serving in his military units, thought that he was too strict. He was a rules only, by the book officer who demanded strict adherence to the military code. He was the kind of individual who had played war games with his lead soldiers while his bigger brother Alexander smothered his father Paul in order to obtain the crown.

However, those who objected to Nicholas’ accession to the throne were not the issue in whole. Plans to topple the throne had been in place for two years. A number of groups had decided that the military would be the forefront of the rebellion. When the confusion over the rightful heir raised its head after Alexander’s death, a decision was made to refuse allegiance to the new Tsar.

In twenty days of December 1825 while Russia was without a leader, the stakes were played. Nicholas took the reins quickly and had the agitators arrested. As a result the leaders were executed while 121 others were sent to Siberia.

They came to be known as the Decembrists.

Their wives could go with them if they so chose. However, they would lose everything including children, titles and possessions. They could never return to Russia.

These innocent women who sacrificed everything and chose the highest moral duty suffered everything for which their husbands had been condemned.

They came to be known to this day as the Decembrist Wives.

The Petrashevski Circle included several groups of thinkers studying Fourier’s communal living and considering ideas such as trial by jury, elimination of corporal punishment, Marxist class struggles and the freedom of the peasant - serfs.

Now, nearly twenty-five years later Nicholas had, after considerable investigation, arrested the more than one hundred who had participated in the meetings. Their trial had been fair based on evidence. Some were released, most were found guilty. On that December day in 1849, while waiting to feel the result of the crack of the rifle, a courier had arrived from the Tsar. Their sentences were being commuted to a Siberian prison.

Nikolai Speshnev had been visited by his lover Lena and his two boys Alexei and Nikolai that she cared for after her sister, Anna, Nikolai’s wife had died. His mother was there also as they bid their farewells to him. They, most likely, would never see him again. It was only the kindness of the Tsar Nicholas that even allowed the families to visit their loved ones once more before serving their sentence in the cold and barren wastelands.

Their feet were shackled by heavy iron castings weighing ten pounds each. Blacksmiths had pinned the unbreakable joints while they stood in the cold December air. Their return to the prison cells had been only with the assistance of the soldiers to lift them up into their seats on the carriages. Sheepskin coats were provided to protect against the winter air. Nikolai’s mother had given him long underwear, gloves, hardtack and a Bible.

The men of the Circle considered themselves lucky, luckier than Petrashevski himself who had been whisked off to his punishment in front of all the onlookers that day. He was given no opportunity with friends, relatives or loved ones. It was not known if he received a sheepskin coat. He was loaded into the sleigh with his shackles, guilt and humiliation and then disappeared to the east.

The next morning at sun-up four open sledges waited for the prisoners as they exited the gates of the Peter and Paul Fortress in Petersburg. Durov, Yastrzhemsky and Dostoevsky huddled together in one sledge. Dostoevsky was quite religious and felt that Russia and the Tsar was God’s entire plan. He took objection, though, to the plight of the serfs, the peasant class of Russia, and desired that they should be freed.

The first day of travel was clear, but the next day was windy and blowing snow against all including the driver and horses. The prisoners huddled against each other with heads bowed. To raise and look ahead would be hit with a face of snow and sleet. It was easier to sleep with their heads resting upon their knees.

Their trip would be eighteen days…in good weather

Nikolai’s body fared better than the rest. His mother’s long underwear helped against the biting icy blasts. His gloves saved his fingers from frostbite. His sledge mates were Mombelli and Grigoryev. They fared the same as did all on those four sledges to Siberia. Nikolai hung his head and remembered his last moments with Lena and the boys. He memorized the face of his mother.

Durov did not fare as well. His fingers and toes were frostbitten. His ankles were damaged by the irons. Dostoevsky’s tip of his nose was frostbitten and his face was covered with sores that had begun even while in prison awaiting trial.

Whether it was out of compassion or a need for self preservation, Dostoevsky’s driver arranged for covered sledges after a few days of heavy snow and cold. Speshnev’s and the other sledges were less fortunate.

Even though Dostoevsky’s sleigh was now covered it was not enough to assuage the depression of Yastrzhemsky.

I cannot take this cold any longer. I will die in prison anyway. I will end it all as soon as I am able.

What are you talking about? asked Dostoevsky. They pressed closer together, but he could feel Ivan’s body shivering.

I’m talking that death is better than this hell.

It will pass. You will make it, offered Fyodor.

How can you say that? We are all going to die in the wastelands!

There is always hope. There is always something better around the bend. God will take care of us.

That is easy for you to say, but I am not religious. I am too sick and tired and weak to earn any kind of favor from God.

Oh, my friend, we can do nothing to earn God’s favor. We can only believe that He will help us. That’s all He wants."

His decision to end his life was reinforced when the sledge reached the Urals.

The Urals were the dividing line between European Russia and Siberia. Asia lay to the East. One was no longer a Russian once passing over the Urals. It was a sad moment. The horses foundered in the drifts. A snowstorm was raging. Everyone was forced to stand outside the sleighs while they were being pulled out.

This was the frontier. To the west lay the past. To the east lay uncertainty and depression. If there was ever a time to end it all, then Yastrzhemsky certainly had the opportunity. With the help of Dostoevsky he held on. When they reached Tobolsk, the first way station on the way to their Siberian prison, there was encouragement.

It came by way of the Decembrist Wives.

This was the distribution point for prisoners. It was here that they would be sent in various directions to their final punishment. It was here, as they ascended the hill and its winding road above the banks of the Irtish and above the town that they saw the fortress of military and administrative buildings. Inside was the prison.

As the horses labored pulling the sledges through the drifts, Nikolai Speshnev looked back down the hill to the little town. Its inhabitants were Tartars, Khirgiz, Russian and German traders, gold prospectors as well as a sprinkling of adventurers.

None of them wore fetters on their legs. He did not ask them or see them. He just knew.

As the sledge approached the gates of the fortress, the Uglich bell began to ring. The bell was the most famous and notorious exile of all. It was banished to the little town when it rang in the town of Uglich calling the people to avenge the death of Crown Prince Dimitry. He had been murdered by his guardian Boris Godunov. Boris then became the new Tsar. He did not forget the bell and its offending tone so he had it bashed and beaten and exiled to Siberia. Its sentence was forever and it was never to be rung again.

The people of Tobolsk took the bell, repaired it and installed it in a small belfry. It called them to prayer with a voice of deep resonance. However, still, it would be a constant reminder to all exiles of the despotic, capricious and ultimate authority of the Russian Tsars.

To the travelers now arriving with sore and aching backs, frostbit bodies and cold shivers, any building meant warmth. Surely it would be warmer than so many days in the snow and sometimes blizzard conditions.

You may get down from your sleigh and stand here before us, said the commandant of the facility.

They will need help, responded the drivers. The irons are too heavy for them.

The men were taken into a warm room wherein they were searched.

What is this? laughed one of the guards. My mother gave me that, answered Nikolai.

Prisoners are not to have rubles, came the response. Everything was taken from the convicts. If Nikolai had not been wearing his long underwear, they would have taken that also. The hard tack had been eaten on the way. Their guards were former exiles themselves who had evidently worked their way up to their present estate. It was easy to tell who were former convicts. They were branded on their cheeks and forehead.

The search room was the last warm room. They were led down a long hall to individual cells. Each cell was narrow, dark and dirty. There was a bed made of wooden planks, but it had no mattress. Sacks of straw were expected to suffice the prisoners as well as sacks of straw for pillows. It was pitch black and cold. 40 degrees to be exact, but still slightly warmer than an open sleigh.

It was with great effort that Nikolai raised his legs encumbered by their rusty irons up onto the plank bed. He was in lamentable shape.

Dostoevsky and his two companions arrived next. Their fate was the same as the others, lining the pockets of the guards. However Dostoevsky caught the eye of one of the guards. He had known him in previous years. They said nothing to each other, but the next day he visited Fyodor in his cell.

Can you help in any way? asked Fyodor.

I will see to it that you have a candle and some matches. I can get you some hot tea.

And for my friends that came before us?

Surely.

He was good to his word and even the little light was a bit of encouragement. Nikolai used the matches to burn pages of his Bible that had been given to him by his mother.

The Tobolsk prison was only a way station that served as a distribution point to other prisons further into the depths of Siberia. The Petrashevski Circle members would only be there until their transportation arrived from the other districts. It might be two days, two weeks or even two months.

On the third day in their temporary quarters a woman was allowed to visit Nikolai.

My name is Natalya Fonvizina. You are?

My name is Nikolai Speshnev. He sat upright upon his bed and leaned his back against the wall. His boots dropped to the floor with a clunk of rattling chains.

Your sores…I have brought something to soothe the chafing of the irons. She reached into her bag and produced a bottle of white lotion. May I? she asked as she bent over his ankles. Without waiting for an answer she lifted his trouser leg to see the cut and bleeding sores against the reddish iron ankle bracelets.

Nikolai closed his eyes and then winced as the ointment burned at first and then settled in to a more comfortable state.

I would not think that there are any women in this god-forsaken place.

You think it is god-forsaken?

I see no evidence of a god here.

She looked up at him as she massaged his leg and bandaged the cuts.

Perhaps you have just not had an opportunity to see, she smiled.

You must be married to one of the guards or something.

I am married, yes. My husband owns a company here.

He came to Siberia to seek his fortune, I imagine. I can’t imagine why he would come here for any other reason. Or why you would come here with him either.

I want to encourage you to hold fast. She handed a package of hardtack to him. I also want to warn you about Omsk. That is where I was told that you are going.

I am going to Omsk? I did not know that? How did you find that out?

There is a man there. He is the commandant of the prison camp. You need to be on guard against him.

Why?

He is a scoundrel. An intriguer and a drunkard. I hesitate to even say these words. You will probably think he is the most repulsive creature on this earth. Don’t make friends with him, but don’t rile him either. You are above that. You are better than that. You are not a criminal Mr. Speshnev. You are not a thief or a murderer. You are here for speaking your mind. Her voice was sympathetic and gentle. It was tender and delicate of feeling.

What are these papers? She lifted charred and burnt remnants from the floor."

I’ve been burning those for warmth.

The Gospel of John? What?

My mother gave them to me.

I can assure you that your mother knew of the water and bread and sustenance that is written on these pages. If you ever did anything that your mother told you…it is to read this.

I am properly chastised. You are almost of my mother’s age. Surely you have not been here long.

Twenty-five years Mr. Speshnev.

Nikolai groaned.

I hope to see you again, but unless I don’t, here is a New Testament. Promise me you will not burn it. It will get you through the hard times. Read it thoroughly cover to cover and even inside the covers.

Thank you Madame Fonvizina. I hope that I have not been too blunt.

She smiled, made the sign of the cross and then announced to the guard that she was ready to leave.

CHAPTER THREE

A FTER TEN DAYS Dostoevsky, Speshnev and Durov were the first to leave. Their incarceration was to be in Omsk. It was a howling blizzard when they left the Tobolsk fortress.

However, Natalya Fonvizina and her friend Marie Frantseva, who had ministered to Dostoevsky also, rode out in advance to meet them for a last encounter. The cold was especially heavy that morning so they left early so as not to miss the departing prisoners. They instructed their coachman to stop up the road and they got out of their sleigh and began a walk on ahead and out of sight. They did not want their coachman to observe their activities. Mme. Fonvizina had a letter for her friend Lieutenant Colonel Zhdan-Pushkin asking him to look after the three prisoners.

They heard the tinkle of bells and soon the troika appeared out of the edge of the forest. The three prisoners leaped out as well as they could with their leg-irons when they recognized the women. They were dressed in convict half-coats and fur hats with earflaps. They were already covered with snow and frost.

We wanted to tell you good bye and not to lose heart, said Natalya. There will be kind people to look after you. Both women hugged the three men who then were instructed to climb back into their vehicle.

I want you to give this letter to Pushkin when you see him, said Natalya. Take care that these men don’t get too cold and have enough to eat along the way. She handed a sealed envelope to the gendarme in the driver’s seat.

I will do so, Madame, was the reply with a nod.

The women stood in the snow waving to the men until they could no longer be seen after a turn into the woods.

It was not until that evening when the sleigh had stopped for the night and the three men with their two gendarmes were bedded down beneath the tall pines and under their lap robes did the subject of the women come up.

What kind of a woman can stop a Federal sleigh with a wave of her hand? asked Speshnev.

Who? Fonvizina and Frantseva? replied the taller man.

You know them by name?

Everyone knows them by name. They’ve been here longer than we have.

That was kind of them to come out to bid us good bye, said Dostoevsky.

You should have bowed to the ground for those two women. They are angels of mercy.

Are they married to the prison commandants? asked Nikolai.

No. Did they not tell you who they are?

No…we thought that they were just Christians obeying the commandment.

They are Decembrists. Decembrist wives.

Decembrist wives?

Yes, they followed their husbands here…the guilty ones who tried to overthrow our beloved Father in 1825.

The women were innocent.

Yes they were. Everyone has paid their price though. Their husbands…those who survived now have businesses or schools or work in the government.

Why do they work here when they could go back to Petersburg? asked Durov.

They can never go back as such will be your fate probably. Never go back, because of your crimes. Now go to sleep and if you have to get up to relieve your selves, do so quietly.

Maybe if you undid our shackles? hinted Nikolai.

You heard me.

It was worth a try, Nikolai whispered as he turned over.

Omsk was another 14 days. The temperature on the plain fell to -60F. The horses died necessitating the search for new horses. After the loss of the first two, the gendarmes stayed in homes where barns could be had to shelter the animals. The convicts stayed with the horses under the roof of the barns. They had hay to sleep in and significantly more warmth from the sheltered animals.

Because of the gendarme’s authority they could have demanded shelter in the homes of those they chanced upon in their journey. However, in spite of the convict’s hampered walk, they knew to not leave them by themselves in the barn. They could take the horses and chance surviving in the land of harsh reality. It would be a foolhardy thing to do, but then, it was a foolhardy thing that was done that got them there in the first place. The chances of surviving there on the steppes in the impenetrable forests of the desert regions of Siberia are slim.

What is this place like? This Omsk that we are going to. asked Nikolai.

Oh, it is a nice wooden town with rich merchants who are very hospitable. There are Europeans and young girls. There is much game that is bold enough to walk down the street.

The champagne flows like water, added the smaller of the gendarmes. Lots of caviar.

But what are the people like? asked Dostoevsky.

Well, it depends on who you are. If you work for the Tsar, in his government, you are paid well and most love the area and will stay the rest of their life. That should tell you something….

When it is this cold? asked Durov.

Certainly! Oh there are some who can’t take it. They serve their three years and then go back to the big cities of Russia. The people who stay are the nobility here. They either came from Russia or were born here and have deep roots.

Would you say that the Decembrist wives are part of the nobility? asked Nikolai.

Absolutely as well as their husbands.

A person can make good money here if they can take the climate.

However, this will do little to help you, added the taller of the men as he rolled over in his sleeping bag. For where you will be staying…is hell.

CHAPTER FOUR

I T WAS A clear, but windy day when the troika stopped on the crest of a low rise. The gendarme in charge turned around to face the three convicts.

Take a look, Mr. Dostoevsky and Durov. This will be your home for the next ten years unless Christ returns.

Nikolai would have gladly stayed with his two comrades, but that was not to be the case. His incarceration was to be in Alexandrovsky, close to Nerchinsk. It was another two weeks by sleigh.

Nerchinsk was 500 miles east of Irkutsk which was 2600 miles east of Petersburg. By the time that Nikolai would arrive in this small village 150 miles north of Manchuria, he would feel as if he had fallen off the edge of the world.

The sleigh was changed as were the horses and drivers.

Fortunately, he was not forced to travel the rest of the way alone and cold. Two others were being transferred from Omsk to Alexandrovsky. Their purpose was to work in the steel plant or silver mine. Nikolai only cared about two bodies to help generate heat.

Omsk is a hell-hole, muttered Aldamir. He was a Circassian with fair hair, violet eyes and a turned up nose. Surely Alexandrovsky won’t be worse if we are going to be going out to work. In Omsk we were shut in all the time. He adjusted his coat and dipped his head lower to ward off the wind.

‘They sent Petrashevski away before all of us,’ thought Nikolai. ‘I wonder where he was sent to? They sent Dostoevsky and Durov to Omsk which, is almost like solitude, I guess. They’re sending me all the way to this Alexandrovsky place…to work in some mine or plant. What is the difference in all of us and our punishments and our different locations?’

Nikolai noticed that the people were changing,. The further they traveled, the more their faces became oriental. Even the houses changed to yurts or round dwellings. As before the men were forced to find shelter from the cold in the local communities. When they arrived at their new incarceration, it was snowing heavily. It was the first week of March 1850.

Before them was a stone citadel that was surrounded by ramparts of high earthwork covered in the long grass of the steppe. On them was a hexagonal palisade that was formed of stakes thrust deep into the soil. The men could see sentinels, or guards walking each way. The troika pulled up to a large gate through an opening in the palisade. The wait took patience for a number of papers were presented. After a while the troika was ordered to proceed.

It was then pulled into a large courtyard where the convicts would learn, later, of their fateful abode. On each side of the courtyard were wooden constructed barracks. They had been built of large trees. According to which class they were in, they would go to either the right or left for their punishment.

At the end of the barracks was a house which served as a kitchen. Behind the kitchen was another building serving as a barn, but containing a cellar and a loft.

The vehicle stopped again in front of the barracks on the right. A guard came out and once again examined all the papers for the three convicts.

Nikolai Speshnev!

Yes.

Get down and come with me.

Nikolai allowed his chains to drag him down to the earth and then slowly followed the man who had called his name. He was led into a long room with low ceilings and scarcely lit by tallow candles. It reeked of heavy and disgusting odors.

This will be your bed. The guard pointed to a wooden structure with three boards.

Will there be a mattress?

The guard laughed and then walked away.

Nikolai looked again at the bedstead and then sat down upon it. Most of the men were apparently out working. Only a few were visible in the building. He removed his hat and gloves, but kept his coat on. The little box that his mother had given him with the few keepsake items was slid under the bed.

You need to hide your box or keep it on you for it will get stolen.

Nikolai looked to his left where a young man with a thin simple face, feverish look with drawn-out features and missing several teeth lay, looking at him. He groaned as he lay back down.

Thank you. I will remember to do that. Where is everyone?

They are breaking up some old government boats on the Irtitch. Some may be shoveling the snow away from the buildings after the last few days.

I see…why are you not out there working? Or even the others who are here?

I can’t speak for the others, but I got caught running liquor…vodka of course. I get a few days of rest in the winter.

You were flogged?

Yes…forty.

I see. I’m sorry.

Eh…it’s worth it a couple of times a year to have the alcohol. I‘m just smarter than most of the others.

Nikolai looked at him wondering what the others must appear to be like if he was considered the smart one.

How is that?

I plan to get caught in the hotter months when the work load is harder. I get to rest…sometimes even in the hospital.

But this isn’t summer.

Yeah… it didn’t work this time.

The sound of voices began to drift into the room and before long men started coming in from the cold. They looked at him as they went to their own beds, but soon they all came back and surrounded him.

New here huh?

You’re a noble aren’t you? sneered a man with an odd-shaped head. I can tell by your hands…how pretty and white they are.

Then you must have money, claimed another man. Money buys things here. I can be your friend and tell you how it’s done.

Don’t listen to him, boomed a tall Circassian. I will give you protection…for trade of course and….

Where is he? shouted a man coming through the door. At the sound of his voice everyone deserted Nikolai. He looked bewildered as the man approached him.

So you’re the new one here? You and a few others of the worst degree. What? You are murderers and scoundrels and child abusers. You will learn to heed my voice. You will learn to fear me.

He bent down and looked into Nikolai’s eyes. With just six inches of space between them he said, You will do everything I say or I will rip your back to shreds. Even if you look at me wrong. I have a dog that will tear you to pieces. Hear that boys! he shouted. Tell him to always be obedient!

Nikolai was taken aback at the man’s repulsive crimson countenance.

I am Krivtsov! Don’t ever forget that name! He turned around and stormed out, kicking and punching other prisoners as left.

After he had left the men gathered around Nikolai.

He’s right, said a man whose name was Demyan, as Nikolai would learn later. He comes at night sometimes….

He will wake you if you are not sleeping on your back.

Huh?

Listen to Sasha.

Yes, he came in one night and hit me because I was sleeping on my side…demanded that I sleep on my back.

Krivtsov was the one whom the Decembrist Wife Mme Fonvizina had warned the escorted convicts about at their first way station, Tobolsk. The man who held almost absolute power over all the inmates of the camp was spiteful and intemperate. He looked upon each man as his personal foe…his enemy. The prisoners feared him and they detested him.

The doors were shut and locked for the evening. Nikolai watched and listened as each of the men became their own person. When the evening meal was served, he saw that there was a pecking order in being served. The hardest workers or first to arrive from the day’s labor were served first. Everyone else came last…unless one had money or some favor to offer.

The meal was bread and cabbage soup. It was supposed to have meat in it, but some kind of magnifying glass would be necessary to see it, much less taste it. It was thickened with flour and was not pleasant to the eyes. However, the others did not seem to mind it. Even those of, whom Nikolai assumed, noble birth accepted it as fact and ritual. They also had not starved to death, so it must be all right.

That night Nikolai tried to sleep, but was unable to sleep much. He guarded his box