The Journeys of Socrates Read online

  Sergei felt as if he were awakening from a long sleep. Suddenly he wanted to learn from Alexei Orlov; he wanted to become him. Now it seemed manly and romantic to be a warrior—like his father.

  Sergei had heard older cadets talking about women—making jokes about what men and women did together to make babies. This subject, which he had previously ignored, now fascinated him. And it was generally agreed that to win a woman a man needed to be able to defend her from other, lesser specimens; he must fight off brigands and protect the weak. In short, he must be like Alexei, the sturdy Cossack with wavy brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, whose face lit up when he smiled.

  Orlov’s one physical flaw—a saber scar on his neck—only added to his dashing persona. He told the boys that the scar served as a reminder about the value of practice, which he had pursued intensely since that mishap. He was never cut again.

  Unlike the other instructors, Alexei the Cossack treated Sergei and the others with courtesy and respect. He expected even the slowest students to surpass him someday, allowing the young men to believe that anything was possible. “When we’re in the woods,” he told the cadets, “you may call me by my first name—as if we are colleagues and friends. But you must work hard to earn this friendship.”

  Sergei would have done anything for him.

  Alexei, he learned, had grown up in a village of Don Cossacks. When Alexei’s father was killed in battle, he had redoubled his training. Driven by a deeper awareness of the reality of death, and by a desire to make his father proud, he was finally taken into the tsar’s elite guard.

  “You will become Russia’s finest soldiers,” he told these young men, “and you will leave your mark upon the world.” The cadets believed every word he spoke.

  “True warriors,” the Cossack added, “bring death only when necessary and protect life, including their own, whenever possible. What good to conquer an enemy in battle, only to be vanquished by hunger or cold? Napoleon and his men were defeated not only by Russian soldiers but also by the Russian winter. So my aim is to show you not merely how to kill, but how to live—how to survive on the bare essentials of life, relying on no one but yourself. There is a difference, however, between knowing how to do something and actually doing it. You will discover that soon enough.”

  SINCE HIS HIKE in the forest with his grandfather years before, Sergei’s love of the wilderness now reawakened in the form of a wanderlust. He found himself gazing at the mountains in the distance. He continued applying himself in the classroom and in wrestling, riding, swimming, saber, and shooting—but survival training became his passion.

  The cadets made camouflaged shelters out of pine branches and learned the skills of hunting and trapping and fishing. Alexei showed them how to find edible plants—nature’s medicines he called them—and how to avoid poisonous plants and other hazards of the wild, such as bears, snakes, and insects. They learned how to adapt to different terrain and any kind of weather. “Outdoorsmen do not seek hardship or adversity,” Alexei explained. “Nor do we delight in sleeping on the cold earth or suffering unnecessary discomfort. We use our wits and skills to soften nature’s sharp edges.”

  One morning before training, Alexei paced back and forth in front of the attentive cadets, gesturing with his arms as he spoke: “We Cossacks are a peaceful and devout people, but fearsome when provoked. When the gospel is read, we draw our sabers halfway out as a gesture of our readiness to defend church and country.

  “Legends abound of the Cossacks’ nearly magical skills in horsemanship and combat. Our people can make sounds to imitate the gait and voice of different animals; we can howl like a wolf, cry like an owl or a hawk to signal our compatriots. But it is not magic; it comes from training.”

  The younger boys begged him to demonstrate, which he did so well that he could hardly continue after that because the young cadets were all howling and making animal sounds too. “Stop!” cried Alexei in mock consternation. “You sound like a barnyard of animals in mating season.” This predictably sent the boys into peals of hysterical laughter, which no other instructor would have allowed—and that was why they loved him. Even the younger boys quieted down at the prospect of learning more.

  “The Cossacks bow to no one but the tsar. We fight his enemies, but beyond this we make our own laws. For example, we will not allow soldiers to arrest runaway serfs whom we have accepted into our communities, yet we kill any marauding bands, and form a Great Wall like that of China—a living wall that can move faster than any enemy, protecting Mother Russia on the frontiers and borders of this vast land.

  “Won’t soldiers make you give back the serfs?” asked one of the younger boys.

  “Soldiers do not ‘make’ Cossacks do anything,” Alexei answered. “We have developed effective fighting methods on any terrain and in all kinds of weather—on frozen rivers, in snowy forests, and on tropical plains—against many different invaders, fighting styles, and weapons. I will teach the best of you some of these skills.”

  Sergei smiled, seeing some of the younger boys sit up straighter, trying to look taller and stand out as more disciplined than their peers. Alexei then led them all into the woods once again. When a few of the younger boys treated this time as play, throwing berries at each other instead of paying attention, Alexei appeared to ignore their antics, until he stopped abruptly and said quietly, “Those who listen, live.”

  The cadets froze as he added, “If any of you gets lost or injured—or if you die during survival training, which can happen—it will be your failure. But it will also be my failure…so you must take care.”

  There were no slackers after that.

  Through Alexei the Cossack, Sergei came to take pride in his father’s lineage. Alexei’s strengths even earned the grudging admiration of Dmitri Zakolyev. For all Zakolyev’s flaws, he trained harder than most for reasons of his own. When the Cossack gave Zakolyev an occasional nod of approval, a jealous Sergei strove even harder to earn Alexei’s respect.

  As the weeks and months passed, Sergei began to win more wrestling matches than he lost, even with some of the older boys. He also learned to shoot a rifle and pistol while riding across the nearby fields, imagining himself a great Cossack. During this period Sergei outgrew his clothing almost as fast as he was issued larger sizes. His uniforms no longer looked baggy; he felt new strength coursing through his arms and legs and chest.

  ON A COLD MORNING during Sergei’s fourteenth year, he overheard Lieutenant Danilov talking with one of the senior cadets. At the word Jew, he listened more closely, and caught a few more words: “…Constantine Pobedonostov, the tsar’s procurator declared…one-third of the Jews forced to convert, one-third expelled…the rest killed…pogrom…Cossacks.” Times were growing darker for the Jewish people—as his grandfather had predicted.

  Friday afternoon, after a survival training session, Sergei managed to catch Instructor Orlov in a rare moment alone and asked if he could walk with him back to the main gate. Alexei’s smile and nod gave Sergei the courage to ask, “Are Cossacks killing Jews?”

  When Alexei kept walking in silence, Sergei feared that his instructor might ask, “Why are you so concerned about Jews?” Instead, he said, “Your uncle told me a little of your history, Sergei. I understand your concern. But…to answer your question about whether some Cossacks have killed Jews…I would have to say yes.

  “Cossacks feel a deep connection to the Tsar and the Mother Church. The ways of Jews seem strange to us. But we are a free and tolerant people. Those who plague, pillage, plunder, and hunt Jews like animals are not Cossacks but nationalists who resent any outsiders. True Cossacks have honor, Sergei. We engage in battle with the enemies of Russia; we do not slaughter a devout people even if they are different.”

  He paused before adding, “Yet among even the Cossacks there are lesser men who have raped women after battle and who have behaved badly. There is no doubt that violence against Jews has increased, at the hands of angry peasants, the Okhrana—the s
ecret police—and even soldiers on orders of the tsar. And a small number of Cossacks may have also raided Jewish settlements. It is a shame.”

  NOT LONG AFTER his conversation with Alexei, between classes, Sergei was washing his face in the latrine area when Zakolyev entered, brushed past him, and said, “Well, if it isn’t Sergei the Good.”

  Sergei was caught off guard. Is that what Zakolyev thought of him? How should he react? If he ignored the comment—pretend it hadn’t happened—he would suffer for it. So he shrugged and muttered, “Not always so good.” Then he exited the latrine as soon as he could.

  Sergei had no wish to fight Zakolyev, four years his senior and equally dedicated to his training. But he thought: Alexei the Cossack would not let a bully dominate him, so neither will I.

  After that he began to observe Zakolyev during hand-to-hand combat matches, seeking to discover the older cadet’s weak points.

  It never occurred to Sergei that Zakolyev was also watching him.

  A few days later Instructor Orlov called the cadets together and told them, “Tomorrow morning at sunrise you will all set out on a seven-day survival test. You will work in pairs, each composed of a senior and junior cadet.” He then instructed the older cadets to choose a younger partner.

  Zakolyev chose Sergei. The phrase “survival test” took on a new meaning.

  .7.

  THE NEXT DAY at dawn Instructor Orlov explained, “Now that you understand the strategies of survival, you and your partner will hike to an isolated part of the forest, away from the others, to the spot marked on your map. Each team of two will work together to survive. Now remove your clothes.”

  The cadets were not sure they had heard correctly; it was late April of 1887, and although the snow had begun to melt, patches still lay on the ground and a chill remained, especially at dawn. “You may keep your shorts,” Alexei said, “but you must walk barefoot to learn the importance of footwear. Each of you may take one of these,” he said, issuing a knife and sheath to each cadet and a small military shovel to each pair. “I expect you to return here by midday seven days from now—well rested, well fed, in good health, and wearing footwear and clothing you made yourself. Any questions?”

  As Sergei undressed, he stole a glance at Andrei, who gave him a worried look about spending seven days with Zakolyev.

  Sergei had to run to catch up with the older cadet, who had already taken the shovel and map and set out toward the forested hills.

  Four hours later, after following a small stream up into the thickly wooded hillside, they arrived at the location marked on the map. Or Sergei guessed it was the right location, since Zakolyev had made no move to show him the map. It looked like a good spot—a small clearing about fifty meters from the stream. The stream meant fish, and equally important, it meant animal trails leading to the water. An overhanging rock wall formed a shallow cave that would serve as a partial shelter; the rest they could build.

  Sergei examined his feet, reddened with cold—numb, already blistered—and was about to find material to make various traps when Zakolyev issued his first order: “Make us a fire!” So he found dry moss and small twigs for a starter fire. He then tried striking his knife against several different stones to create sparks but made little progress, so he shaped a fire stick and began rubbing for friction and heat and blowing gently. It took longer than he had thought, but soon he had heat, then smoke, then glowing embers. Despite the blisters on his hands matching those on his feet, Sergei felt a primal excitement when the twigs burst into flame. He had made fire in training sessions, but this was for real. This meant survival.

  Meanwhile, Sergei noted, Zakolyev had gathered branches, stones, and the tuberous fibers they could weave into string for their snares. So, after placing some larger branches on the fire and then larger logs he had cut from a fallen tree with the shovel, Sergei approached Zakolyev to help construct their traps.

  “Go get your own materials!” said Zakolyev. “This is for my traps.”

  So that’s how it was. Sergei knew better than to refer to the crackling flames as “my fire.”

  He moved quickly into the forest to find the materials he would need for his traps. After some difficulty, and with an eye to the sun’s lengthening afternoon shadows, he managed to build and set seven traps at likely spots upriver and upwind of their site along animal trails. He made two fish traps and set snares and deadfalls—and where a supple sapling grew, he made two spring traps near the stream. He was careful to camouflage them well.

  By the time he returned to camp, dusk had brought cold gusts of wind from the north. Shivering, he slapped himself and danced around to keep warm. He found Zakolyev completing a primitive shelter from birch branches and leaves, propped against the hillside next to the fire. It had room for only one.

  The fire, now little more than embers, needed more logs. Sergei gathered a few and set one on the fire Zakolyev had claimed. Then he gathered more twigs and logs and built a fire of his own.

  By the light of his fire, Sergei managed to throw together a makeshift overhang of interwoven pine branches near another granite overhang. He finished just as a light drizzle began. The cloud cover served as an insulating blanket, keeping the night from turning frigid.

  Shivering, wet, and naked except for his shorts, Sergei sandwiched himself between layers of pine boughs he had gathered, shifting until he found a warmer position. Zakolyev’s huddled form, faintly visible in the glow of his fire, revealed that he had made similar preparations.

  Sergei lay awake for a few moments, too cold to sleep, and listened to the rain. Despite the cold and hunger that churned in his belly, a wave of satisfaction washed over him. He had set snares, made fire, found shelter. For the present, he was alive and well. In the morning he would check his traps, and they would see what the day would bring. These thoughts gave way to a deep fatigue that pulled Sergei over the edge of sleep.

  WHEN SERGEI next opened his eyes, his breath misted in the chill morning air. He scrambled out of his bed of pine branches, hoping for a patch of sunlight, but found none this early. Leaving Zakolyev asleep, he walked gingerly on sore feet to the stream, where he drank, then splashed the icy water over his face and chest and shoulders. Brushing the water from his body, he slapped himself all over, and ran in place until his body warmed. He then returned to camp, grabbed his knife, and headed upstream.

  Although he had marked trees at eye level near his traps, Sergei couldn’t find the first snare. Alexei had reminded them, “The wilderness teaches hard lessons and has little tolerance for mistakes.” Why didn’t I pay better attention? Sergei thought, chastising himself for his carelessness. Backtracking, he finally found the second trap he had set. It was empty.

  But nearby, in a spring trap he had placed along the trail, he found an exhausted weasel, dangling in midair, struggling weakly. He approached the animal cautiously. As he reached up to grasp the weasel, it made a low growl and sliced his hand with a sudden swipe of its claw. Then it tried to bite him.

  With a primitive rush of energy, Sergei grabbed the back of its head and slashed the weasel’s throat so forcefully he nearly took off its head—and narrowly missed cutting his own wrist in the process. The creature kicked a few times, blood pulsing from its neck. Then it was still, and dead.

  Panting and trembling, his heart pounding, Sergei found the presence of mind to open the snare rather than cut it; he would need it again. He hoped the killing would be easier in the future. But then he thought, Should killing get easier? Do I have the right to take a creature’s life? No, he decided, only the power. He did what had to be done under the circumstances. He felt no animosity toward this animal, which had only tried to defend itself. And Sergei had killed only to survive. He thanked the weasel for its life, which would sustain his own. He would not waste it.

  In killing that weasel, he had put a part of his childhood behind him. He realized that his life too could be snuffed out in a moment. It had nothing to do with fairness, only chance
. By paying attention—through knowledge and skill—he might better his odds. This was his first real lesson in the wilderness. As he padded quietly toward the next trap, Sergei wondered what kind of snares might be waiting for him on his own path into the future.

  The third trap was empty and undisturbed; so were the fourth and fifth. The next had snared a squirrel, which he killed as quickly and mercifully as he could with one blow of a large stone. The remaining traps were empty, except for the last, in which he found a large rabbit. This meant food for several more days, and new shoes as well.

  The cut on his hand from the weasel’s claw was beginning to throb. So he swung his arm rapidly around to make the cut bleed and cleanse the wound. Then he washed and scrubbed and scoured the shallow gash with sand from the stream. Finally, he peed on it, remembering Alexei’s dictum that fresh urine could help guard against infection.

  After Sergei tied the creatures together with several vines, he reset the last snare and turned back toward the camp. He didn’t expect any more catches until the next morning, but he would check again in the late afternoon. Just in case.

  The hunt had awakened his instincts and sharpened every sense. He listened to rainwater dripping from budded branches overhead and birdsong in the distance. His eyes drank in every hue and texture of the forest as he headed back to camp. He found a morose Zakolyev skinning his catch—a single squirrel, one small meal and one shoe.

  Sergei knew it would not go well for him when Zakolyev saw his three animals, but he could hardly hide them. So he casually walked up and dumped the other squirrel next to Zakolyev’s, followed by the weasel and rabbit, saying diplomatically, “These are from our other traps.”