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Orbits, Volume II: "The Reluctant Revolutionary"

by Sven A. Linholm; Mary Syme-Linholm, Editor; Hugh Syme, Illustrator

382 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-2027; ISBN 1-4120-1650-9; US$30.00, C$34.50, EUR25.00, £17.50

To survive the anarchy of revolutionary Russia, the hounding by secret police, an obsessive love affair, a Cossak's sabre slash, sentencing to Siberia and more - that takes courage and perseverance.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book Volume II of ORBITS: "The Reluctant Revolutionary" continues the saga of the young Estonian, Jarmo Matson, as he enrolls at the University of St. Petersburg in 1903. He joins a politically minded group, "The Circle of Friends", where Russian students mingle with Westerners (Canadian, English, American, German and French) to learn about freedom and democracy. Coming from a country conquered by Russia and administered for her by the Baltic German Knighthood, Jarmo has a built-in prejudice against Germans and Russians. Yakov Kupinski, a fellow student and a revolutionary leader, tries to recruit him to Russia's revolution, but Jarmo resists. His goal is to regain power from the local Germans, along with an even bolder goal of breaking free of Russia. Jarmo becomes friends with Dmitri Rogov, son of a wealthy industrialist. He falls for and becomes obsessed with Dmitri's sister Kira, a ravishing beauty who only toys with him. The Rogovs introduce Jarmo to the glittering life of St. Petersburg, while Yakov Kupinski shows Jarmo the seamier side of Russia. Unwittingly, Jarmo becomes involved with Kupinski's revolutionary schemes and narrowly escapes being part of a plot to assassinate the Military Governor of Moscow, an uncle of Nicholas II. At a ball, Jarmo meets a poet, Kirill Bergamov, and a young actress, Lyudmila Pudnitseva. Jarmo and Lyudmila "hit it off" and their friendship becomes a most pleasurable affair. She reveals that she's a revolutionary with Kupinski and warns Jarmo that the poet Bergmanov is an Okhrana Secret Police agent who suspects Jarmo of revolutionary activities. The poet is also a rejected suitor of Kira, making him a doubly dangerous enemy. A surprise attack by Japan finds Russia ill-prepared for war and forced to sue for peace. The oppressed nation explodes into the Revolution of 1905 and anarchy engulfs Russia. During that maelstrom of madness Jarmo is faced with personal disasters, and must chart his course carefully to avoid both the extreme right and Marxist dreams of world rule. He is caught up in the horror of events, and eventually becomes "The Reluctant Revolutionary". When armed Cossacks attack the student body at a demonstration, Jarmo is severely wounded while saving Dmitri's life. He recovers at the Rogov's home, where Kira again brings her fatal charms into play. Bergmanov plots Jarmo's sentencing to Siberia; Lyudmila Pudnitseva and Dmitri's younger sister Irina plot a prison break for Jarmo...

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About the Author Sven Linholm, seemingly cool and imperturbable, belies the reality of a colourful life in which he has had experiences ranging from crowding Death's Door to sharing the joys of the Elysian Fields. Spends early childhood in Moddder Deep, South Africa, a gold mining region, where father is a mining engineer, and where nannies are kind and black. Returns to native Estonia, and attends the Lycée Française and later the English College, where first sparks of daydreaming with a pen are evident. WW II kicks everything upside down and Stalin invades the country, bringing along a mad ideology and the horrors of bloodshed and deportations. He watches the Reds arrest his stepfather who takes his own life to thwart the possibility of betraying political friends under torture. He and the rest of the family escape the mass-deportations of the population to Russia. Then Nazi armies invade the country. German cannon pound the city while hundreds queue for bread. A bedroom window is splattered with blood from a dead soldier on the roof, his head lying among the flowers in the garden below. Some years later Red planes return to bomb and burn a big chunk of the capital. Escapes with rest of the family just days before the Red Army returns. A long stay at a Displaced Persons camp in the American Zone of Germany, where he works at the PX for the American Army and plays in an amateur jazz band for American Red Cross dances. Passage to Britain at last! Among only four fields of work open to immigrants are agriculture and hospitals. Works as a gardener and handyman at a castle in the Cotswolds. Later, in a London hospital wheels patients to the operating room, or prepares corpses for visiting families, all the while studying aeronautical engineering. Accepts a position in Canada with DeHavilland and arrives just as the Korean War breaks out. Sorry, mister—no work for non-British subjects in war industry! Turns down job offer to sweep the yard. Becomes successful selling real estate while studying economics and architecture, leading to a career in designing, building and selling houses. Such experiences with violence and butchery, of invasions and wars have left their mark and created memories which nudge reality along mysterious paths. But they have also enhanced his delight in the beauty and pleasures life has to offer which led him to succumb to a growing desire to write a saga in which these facts and the magic of fiction mingle—a saga that's been developing in his mind for many years. And so Orbits

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Excerpts

"O-oh?" said Kupinski, his spoon braking to a halt in mid-air. "Oppressors?"

"Russia has no monopoly on them—we've got our own evil brand."

Kupinski's gaze intensified. "You talk about Estonia as if it were a separate country. Surely we all know it's part of Russia."

Jarmo smirked. "So Russia says. You with the Okhrana?" he challenged Kupinski.

Okhrana was the feared Secret Police of the Ministry of the Interior.

Kupinski smirked right back. "If I were, do you think I'd tell you?"

Jarmo shrugged. "I've got nothing to hide. To us, the land we live in is Estonia. Russia is but one of a string of nations that has ruled us for the past seven centuries. Peter the Great grabbed us from the Swedes. Tomorrow, who knows—maybe the Mongols will return to Russia.

Kupinski lowered his voice. "So Russia is the oppressor?"

Jarmo laughed out loud. "You want me to put my foot in it? You forget I come from the farm; I'm used to stepping around cow flaps."

Kupinski grinned foolishly, but remained silent.

"Our nemesis is the Baltic German Knighthood," said Jarmo, "the descendants of the Knights of the Sword who conquered us in l227; after twenty years of bitter wars."

Kupinski looked surprised. "Well, doesn't Russia rule you now?"

"Yes, but the Germans run the country for her, as they've done with all the past conquerors. They've always survived as lords of the land and oppressors of the natives. They enslaved us, and later fought the liberal Tsars tooth and nail to thwart abolition of slavery."

For the moment Bybyk was stumped. Strimovski turned to Keating, his quizzical glance demanding clarification. "So what are the Russians to learn from this?" he enquired.

The Englishman smiled. "Perhaps that the people are the real rulers after all. I suppose, to be perfectly civilized about it, the Russians ought to persuade the Tsar of the error of his ways, advise him to abolish autocracy and proclaim constitutional monarchy."

"And just how are you going to persuade the Little Father to do that?" cried John Stratton, a young man from Canada who was working towards an engineering degree.

"Yes, Harry," Keating said to his neighbour. "How do you dump such a symbol?"

Harry Roden, a New Yorker, looked amused. It was his second year with the "Circle" and he had come to enjoy the tug-of-war between the Russian students who were hobbled by the restraints of the autocracy, and the students from the west who had grown up in the heady atmosphere of democracy. Like Strimovski, he often played the Devil's advocate; only in his case it was more for pure devilment, or to offset the often melancholy lamentations of the Russian students. Now he eyed Keating with a friendly smirk.

"The Russians could always try dumping a little tea into the harbour," he snickered. "Did wonders for our side, you know—Boston has never been the same since." He caught the look of annoyance on the Englishman's face and burst into a good-natured belly laugh.

With a sweep of his hand. Keating brushed off the barb. "Now-now, you old colonial," he said. "You were all dying to get rid of the king, but once on your own you can't seem to let go completely. Just have even a lowly baronet waltz down the gangplank in New York harbour and you Yanks fawn all over him. Let it be the Prince of Wales and you go gazooks over the bloke. Secretly, methinks you'd just love to see a king in the White House."

"Yikes—listen to him!" Harry Roden exclaimed. "You just try and put one in!"

Keating made a dismissive gesture. "Oh no—you go pick your own royals. But you wouldn't dare—imagine all the puffed-up history books that would have to be re-written. Besides, the ghosts of your Founding Fathers would haunt you right out of your knickers.

Kira's voice hardened. "Kirill Ivanovitch, I already told you that I'm interested in someone else."

The next moment she appeared at the door. She slipped into the room, coming to a dead stop as she caught sight of Jarmo. Her mind seemed to be racing. Bergmanov was behind her, still in his overcoat and with hat in hand, his lanky body crowding her.

She looked lovelier than ever! Her jet-black hair was piled on top of her head. She wore a stark white blouse with a wing-collar that accentuated her long neck. The blouse was tied with fine gold rope looped through eyelets criss-crossing the front and ending with two metallic gold tassels hanging down against a black velvet skirt. How the velvet hugged those slim hips! How the gold tassels swayed suggestively! Her mouth—much like her mother's—was half-open in a startled smile. Jarmo managed an outward calm as he rose. She was what he had expected-out-of-this-world ravishing!

"Jarmo—" Julia Rogova began the introduction, and immediately Kira interrupted her.

"Jarmo!" she exclaimed theatrically, dashing across the room. "What a nice surprise—I wasn't expecting you!"

Before Jarmo realized what was happening, Kira flung her arms around his neck and kissed him fully on the mouth. Her lips were cool and moist and her scent was intoxicating. Immediately he realized that he was being used-all this lovely passion was for the benefit of Kirill Bergmanov standing by the door. But Kira was not one to waste an effort. She made sure she left her brand burning on Jarmo. Her kiss melted through him right down to his toes.

At the doorway the poet looked livid and his self-control began to develop cracks like Satsuma porcelain. His eyes narrowed into slits as he pointed his finger at Jarmo in a hostile gesture. He stammered, but couldn't get his words out—then suddenly turned on his heel and rushed off. A moment later the house echoed as the front door was slammed with unnecessary vigour. Shortly thereafter Ossip appeared at the door.

"I believe Mr. Bergmanov has just taken his leave," he announced. Irina fell into a fit of giggles, and Kira joined her with a more subdued titter.

"I never did like that dandy," said Yuri Rogov.

Kitty Morland, the brains of the outfit, had graduated from Bryn Mawr, and she was not ready to forgive her own ignorance that easily.

"Where do we find Estonia?" she asked.

Jarmo smiled. "Just a little west of St. Petersburg, but still under a giant boot called Russia." When he saw the cobwebs of confusion in her face, he added: "And the foot that tromps around in that boot is called the Baltic German Knighthood—they rule us."

Babe looked sympathetic. "You poor boy, you've been conquered then!"

Jarmo grinned. "Not exactly. Estonia has been conquered all right, but someone has to do it to me personally before I admit defeat."

Miss Howard gave a chuckle. "I like a feisty man—never say die!"

"That's Jarmo all right," Keating chimed in. "He's our dormant revolutionary, waiting for his chance at the barricades."

Miss Ashton's eyes doubled in size. This was exciting! She and her companions were fully aware of the latent unrest in Russia, the sporadic uprisings across the Empire, and of the Russian Marxists in Switzerland plotting the downfall of the Tsar. Hadn't they blown up their Interior Minister Sipyagin in l902? That was practically yesterday! And here they had a real live revolutionary sitting at their table, smiling and making pretty compliments, and all the while he could be sending out secret messages, cooking up plots, perhaps even ordering someone's strangulation by piano wire or directing a beautiful agent to assassinate an enemy by driving a stiletto through a living heart! Pretty Miss Ashton shivered with excitement.

"Do you throw bombs, Jarmo?" she burst out, a delicious mixture of adventure and horror reflecting in her face.

The smell of pork sizzling in the pan began to drift in from the kitchen, and all eyes turned in that direction. All eyes, except for Luba's, who had the torment of all Russia in hers.

"It's hard to ask a stranger for help," she said, the whine in her voice just below the threshold of irritability. "But life on the streets will soon see my Verushka sick and spent-what a future for my only child! But you—oh, Verushka could be very grateful to you."

So she hadn't asked him outright for money, although she was hinting like hell. Still, they hadn't invited him here to do his Good Samaritan thing; he'd started it all by himself. Now it was up to him to finish it all by himself, but he wasn't going to be suckered either.

"I can only give you three roubles," Jarmo said. "That's all I've got."

The smell of sizzling pork grew stronger, and even Jarmo gave an involuntary swallow. He fished out his money and Luba Dubrovina snatched it from him fast, as if she was afraid he might change his mind. Immediately she showered him with a flood of gratitude, praising his kind heart. The world was a better place for his presence in it, and God would surely reward him. Then, she turned and hollered to the back of the room:

"Verushka, will you do it for three roubles?"

There was a momentary silence, then a complaining voice shot back: "Three roubles!"

There was no time to lose! Jarmo still had his arms free. As "Scarface" was about to lift him off the bridge, Jarmo spread his arms and then smashed his palms lightning-quick over his attacker's ears—an ungentlemanly move designed to burst eardrums. "Scarface" howled as he dropped him. Swiftly Jarmo pressed his advantage and lunged at his victim, throwing a series of hard blows until the man ended up in a limp heap. Gasping, Jarmo drew back and braced himself against the parapet, trembling from the struggle. Two down, one to go-would the third man lurking somewhere in the fog continue the attack?

Just then, like blowing the head off a foaming stein of beer, a sudden gust of wind swept the fog from the bridge—the air was clear all the way to the riverbank. The attacker with the wrenched arm was disappearing in the distance, while directly ahead "Scarface" was out cold. The third one was standing some fifty feet away, staring at the scene in disbelief. A moment later he slipped his hand into his overcoat and pulled out a pistol. He raised it overhead, pointing up.

"Let's see if you're as good at dodging bullets," he said, slowly lowering the weapon.

Jarmo didn't think he would be any good at all. In a split second he flung himself over the parapet and splashed into the icy-cold Neva below.

They'd started out by discussing the eternal wars between the nations of Europe-widow-makers that never solved anything. It was all about power and glory and economic plunder, with the rich and mighty nations going after their goals hammer and tong while the weaker ones cringed on the sidelines. They had come to the conclusion that part of Europe's problem was a weird kind of racism that often revolved around how one's own bailiwick had been carved out of that great chunk called Europe. Nit-picking racists ranted over tiny wiggles in geography, over some damn hillock or brook or a church of another faith, and for this they were willing to bury their hatchets into each other's backs.

"We've always had wars," said Jarmo, humouring them in their foggy reasoning. "Maybe man is eventually doomed to disappear into history."

"What a disgusting h-idea!" said Keating. "Surely you're joking?"

"No," said Jarmo. "We think we've conquered nature, but nature is highly egocentric. Maybe war is her way of getting rid of a life form that's running amok. Perhaps man is a failed experiment of nature and has to be driven into extinction."

"Jarmo, you're too sober," complained Arsène. "Drink up and join our Utopia!"

The Cossack turned with a chilling laugh. Slowly his horse began to trot forward. As the rider touched his spurs to the horse's flanks, it sprang ahead. Now the Cossack advanced towards Dmitri, sabre upraised! Jarmo warned his friend as he ran to intercept the rider.

There was no time to think or plan or speculate. From that moment on everything happened as if in a dream, like a slow-motion dance. Jarmo had no idea how he got to the horse in time—he just was there. Time itself had become twisted, like in Lev Ozerin's strange four-dimensional world. His eyes registered the incredulous look on the Cossack's face, and then he saw the sabre cutting an arc through the air and he felt a burning pain across his chest. He saw the horse rear when he locked his hand on its bridle. Vaguely he heard the Cossack's cursing as he hung on. For an instant he seemed to dangle from the bridle in mid-air. The next moment the horse stumbled and fell on him. Everything went black.

She rushed over and gave Jarmo a sloppy kiss. Sloppy, but ver-ry nice!

"You look gorgeous!" said Jarmo. "Good enough to eat, or at least to nibble on."

Babe's eyes sparkled like fireworks on the 4th of July. "Promises! Promises!" she said, and wrinkled her nose.

She did look gorgeous! She wore a black-and-white candy-striped outfit, black patent leather accessories and a huge cartwheel-brimmed black hat worn at a devastating 45-degree angle. It reminded Jarmo of the hat worn by his beautiful Russian teacher at Apfelbaum's, which had ruined the perfectly peaceful existence of their bachelor math-teacher.

Harry pulled two chairs over and they sat close to his bed.

Meantime Babe Howard was casting her eyes over Jarmo. Suddenly her eyes widened and she slapped her hand over her mouth. The buttons at the neck of his nightshirt were undone and the angry red slash from the Cossack's sabre was plainly visible on his chest. It had already healed—that's why Strimovski had finally removed the bandages—but it left a clear indication of the vicious brutality he had suffered.

"Harry told me that you had been terribly wounded," Babe whispered anxiously, "that you almost died. I had no idea how close you came." She shut her eyes in a moment of horror.

Something swept the sleep from his eyes. He sensed he wasn't alone in the room, and he tensed. While the days were warm now, the furnace still fired up at night and the room was hot. He had pulled his nightshirt off and was naked. He yanked at his comforter and glanced around the room, but he couldn't distinguish much because of the blinding moonlight flooding in from the two windows. It must have been well past moonrise since its brilliant wash reached only halfway across the floor. Its shine bounced off the polished carvings of the tables and chairs and his brass bed; it glistened on the tallboy at the far end of the room, the wall mirror and the glaze of etchings on the walls. Through the sheer glass-curtains the stark white outlines of the window frames accentuated the inky squares of the night sky.

A figure stirred by the door and began to move towards the far window, almost gliding. It paused at the edge of the shaft of moonlight, hesitant, watchful, as if reluctant to step into its revealing rays. The next moment it was right in the middle of it, discovered, and bathed in the brilliance of the moon. It was Kira!

She wore nothing but a diaphanous peignoir. The moonlight made it glow like an iridescent veil, outlining her body in bewitching fashion—a white lily wrapped in heavenly light! She didn't move, but the peignoir floated almost imperceptibly, revealing one feature after another, etching each one in his consciousness. She looked fragile, and slimmer than he had imagined her to be.

Then she rose to her toes, arms stretched above her head, body arched back, breasts thrust forward—like the Queen of the Night paying homage to the moon.

"What you in for?"

Jarmo didn't reply.

"They hauled me in for cutting up a Cossack," Balaban volunteered. "Bled like a pig. Only being on his horse saved him." He swaggered. "I got away, but somebody must have squealed." He shrugged. "No matter—they'll never make the charge stick."

Somehow his story didn't ring true. One might cut up a gendarme in a great mêlée, maybe even bloody a soldier in a crowd and get away with it, but a mounted Cossack? Not by this effeminate type. It probably could be done, but not with those soft lily-white hands.

Suddenly Jarmo realized the man was a plant! He was here to dig for information and to try to incriminate him with some revolutionary activity, something unlawful. A favourite trick of the Okhrana was to gain a prisoner's confidence, then help him convict himself by his own mouth. Assuming he would be apprehensive on his first day in jail, he'd be grateful for a sympathetic ear. He'd be encouraged to spill his guts, and so maybe seal his fate.

The Count slapped his file, as if to say 'What else do we need here!'

Jarmo sensed that the examining judge was for a guilty verdict, while Judge Nikitin seemed to be on his side. Maritov looked as if he was of two minds.

When Jarmo rose for the verdict, Brenner was staring ahead, ignoring him. The public kept a hushed silence; only Ossip's eyes telegraphed encouragement. The three judges had their heads together. Judge Nikitin then rubbed his chin and cleared his throat. The verdict came with the monotone of someone reading off the railway timetable.

The accused was guilty as charged. In view of his past history, any further imprisonment would serve no useful purpose. But the accused had to learn that laws were not there to be manipulated according to the whims of the individual. Bearing this in mind, the accused was hereby sentenced to exile for a period of three years, so that in the vast expanses of Siberia he would have time to reflect on the importance of obeying the law.

Jarmo was stunned. He had thought he had a good chance of gaining a 'not guilty' verdict. Instead, he had three years of Siberia ahead of him! Not in his wildest dreams—! He turned towards Brenner, and ignoring his I-told-you-so stare, whispered a shocked:

"Now what?"

He didn't give a damn about anything, except that personal pests filled him with disgust. That enemy he had to defeat, and he launched into a single-minded attack. Again he went over every item in his cell. When he threatened to write to the newspapers about the condition of his cell, the prison authorities supplied him with carbolic acid that he used in solution to wash down every surface, including ceiling and walls. Through Konrads he borrowed a coal-fired iron, and proceeded to iron every blanket and every stitch of clothing—particularly the seams—with the iron as hot as possible, to make sure nothing survived, especially the eggs.

He had gone over everything in his cell and was just about to finish his task when the peephole in his cell door was slid open. Instinctively he turned—and stared into the sneering face of Kirill Bergmanov.

"Gotcha!"

The bastard had come to gloat!

As if drawn by a magnet, the Okhrana agent's eyes shot over to the water-filled buckets. Immediately he recognized the battle being waged in the cell. He snorted with glee as he spoke: "Well now, Jarmo Markusevitch, what a miserable battle you're fighting here," he said. "Of course, I always did think that this was just about your speed, tshukhna."

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Catalogue Information

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