Praskovia Ivanovskaia was in charge of the press now and there were new faces and new rules: no one to write or receive letters, no contact with other party members, no meetings, no social gatherings. ‘Things are so bad, Anna, dear. Alexander Mikhailov is trying to prevent more losses.’
The executive committee was fortunate in Praskovia, for she obeyed without question. She was the daughter of a village priest and there was something of the religious ascetic in her manner and appearance. She had a plain face with dark hair that she dragged off her forehead and tied in a tight bun, short-sighted, with spectacles on a chain, a large mouth that turned down a little at the corners. Although she was only twenty-seven years old she dressed in black like a widow twenty years older. No one was prepared to sacrifice more for the party, and she was baffled when others did not show the same stubborn loyalty.
‘Olga has left Russia with Morozov,’ she told Anna when they were alone together in the apartment for the first time. ‘They’re living in Switzerland as if they were man and wife.’ She paused and leant forward to stare at Anna. ‘What is it? Why are you smiling?’
‘Olga used to say nothing should come before the party.’
‘And Morozov used to talk about the revolutionary spirit, the need to give up selfish love.’
‘Perhaps Olga can’t help herself,’ Anna replied quietly.
‘But it’s selfish. We pledged our love to the people and the party . . .’ Praskovia hesitated, but could not check the resentment that had been building inside her for months. ‘Things are not what they were, Anna. No one cares. Look at Sophia and Gesia Gelfman too. We used to be brothers and sisters . . . it’s sapping the will of the party.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head crossly: ‘It’s wrong.’
‘You don’t mean Sophia Perovskaya?’
‘Yes. Our Sophia. She’s sharing an apartment – a bed – a few streets from here with that bear Zhelyabov.’
Sophia Perovskaya. Anna’s friend Sophia. Sophia, the perfect revolutionary. The Sophia who instructed her to leave Petersburg because she was too intimately involved with a man. They had all been so quick to preach, and she had wounded someone she cared for very deeply. If she had asked them why it was so very different for her they would simply have said he was ‘not one of us’. And she would have been forced to admit they were right. She tried not to think of him because looking back could serve no purpose. In her months of exile she had come to a quiet acceptance that she would be ruled by the party in all things for the good of the people.
It was Anna who found the cheese shop on the Malaya Sadovaya. A respectable address that would meet the party’s needs perfectly. The other premises in the street were occupied by smart residential blocks, prosperous merchants and the better sort of taverns. It was on the corner with Italyanskaya Street, only a few yards from the blue and white Petrine building where the chief prosecutor’s clerks prepared cases for trial.
On a blustery autumn afternoon, a sharp northeasterly chasing leaves along the street, she visited the building with Andrei Zhelyabov, rousing the dvornik from post-prandial slumber. A basement with a shopfront and counter, a living room and vaulted cellar, clean, a little damp, annual rent twelve hundred roubles. Subject, of course, to the usual police checks.
They made their report at a secure apartment on Voznesensky Prospekt the following morning. The sitting room was cramped and stiflingly hot and most of the executive committee was forced to sit on the floor. Alexander Mikhailov presided in one of the chairs. He nodded curtly at Anna but offered no sort of welcome. He had put on weight, the buttons of his waistcoat under strain, his beard not full enough to disguise the roll of flesh beneath his chin.
Vera Figner called to her, ‘Annushka,’ weaving across the room with her arms outstretched in welcome. And a moment later Sophia Perovskaya was at her side, reaching up to kiss her cheek.
‘I’ve missed you, Annushka. So much has happened while you were away.’
‘Yes. I’ve heard a little.’
Sophia noticed her smile of amusement and blushed. ‘We’re very happy,’ she said, glancing over to Zhelyabov.
‘And I’m happy for you, Sonechka,’ Anna replied.
‘Are you?’
‘Of course.’
Sophia leant confidentially close: ‘I’m not sure everyone feels the same way.’
She was on the point of saying more when Mikhailov clapped his hands and called the room to order. Zhelyabov was the first to speak, his back against the wall, gesturing animatedly, a powerful passionate figure: ‘We’re all agreed on this new campaign, I know. And we’re agreed that our best opportunity will be when the emperor is returning from the Sunday parade.’ Stepping to the table, he picked up a simple hand-drawn map of the city and held it up for them all to see. ‘The escort usually leaves the Mikhailovsky Manège and travels down Malaya Sadovaya, turning right on to Nevsky. But it can return to the palace along the Ekaterininsky Canal too. We will never know which way it’s going to go. If we want to make sure we must use grenades.’
A bombing party would move into position as soon as it knew the route, he explained; three bombers at intervals in case the first grenades failed to explode or missed the target: ‘There is one drawback . . .’
‘. . . the bomber doesn’t stand a very good chance of escape,’ Sophia said, completing his thought. He nodded slowly, a reflective frown on his face.
‘And who do you propose would lead this bombing party?’ Mikhailov asked quietly.
‘Me,’ said Zhelyabov with a shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I can’t ask anyone else to do it.’
An uncomfortable silence settled on the room. Zhelyabov began rolling the map as if no debate were necessary. Sophia stared at him, her small round face stiff and impassive, but her hands turning in her lap. It was Mikhailov who spoke next.
‘I think we should consider the other option.’ He turned to Anna. ‘You’ve found a shop that might meet our requirements?’
She described the basement in the Malaya Sadovaya to them, venturing the opinion that it would be a simple task to drive a gallery beneath the street. Zhelyabov voiced objections, and it was only after an hour of heated wrangling that they reached agreement.
‘So we must try both,’ said Mikhailov. ‘If we manage to detonate the mine there’ll be no need for the bombing party, but with both we can be sure.’
The dvornik was sympathetic, and a picket had been posted in the street, but the committee had met for longer than was wise. Presuming the business to be over, its members began rising stiffly from the floor, stretching aching limbs, brushing dust from their skirts and trousers.
‘I’m sorry, but there’s one thing more.’ There was an ominous note in Mikhailov’s voice. ‘I have been told the prosecutor is going to demand the death sentence.’
No one spoke. No one moved. It was as if Mikhailov had thrown open the windows and a bitter wind had sucked the warmth from the room. Anna turned to Vera Figner and was shocked to find her close to tears, her hand trembling at her mouth.
‘Who are they going to condemn?’ Anna asked tentatively.
‘The city is alive with it, Annushka,’ Sophia replied. ‘They’ve arranged a show trial – Alexander Kviatkovsky, Evgenia and some of the others.’
‘They will try to make an example of Kviatkovsky, and perhaps Presnyakov too,’ Mikhailov added. ‘They found the plan of the palace in Kviatkovsky’s apartment.’
A man Anna did not recognise but from his bearing took to be a junior army officer demanded they attempt a rescue. No one bothered to reply. She took a step towards Vera and tried to put an arm about her shoulders.
Vera shook herself free. ‘No. It’s all right, really,’ but she looked cross, almost hostile, angry that anyone should witness a moment of weakness.
After the meeting broke up, Anna took her friend aside. ‘Evgenia will be all right, Verochka. They won’t execute a woman.’
‘What?’ she asked irritably, the colour rising to her che
eks. ‘You don’t understand, Anna. It’s not my sister . . .’ She opened her mouth as if ready to say more then she closed it firmly and turned with a scowl to hide her pain.
34
28 OCTOBER 1880
They told Hadfield not to go. His aunt was concerned it would be too much for him and both Dobson and Colonel Gonne of the embassy were of the view it would be foolish to be seen in court.
‘You will only remind the terrorists of your existence. They might make another attempt on your life,’ Dobson had told him.
‘In court?’
The correspondent had hesitated before suggesting quietly that it would be wise not to show too great an interest in their fate. But Hadfield went anyway.
The gendarmes had thrown a tight cordon round the building on Liteiny Prospekt and were permitting only those with a pass from the Ministry of Justice to enter. Hadfield had twisted Dobson’s arm to arrange one for him, and they had gone together on the third day of the trial. It was a grey morning in late October, with the bitter promise of winter in the air, and both he and Dobson were grateful for the warmth and light of the crowded courtroom. Spare, whitewashed and panelled in dark oak, it was an almost perfect square with three floor-to-ceiling windows before which the judges were seated at a low table. To their left, the prisoners’ dock, to their right, distinguished guests of the court and the gentlemen of the press, and the public were in a gallery of seats opposite. A full-length portrait of the emperor hung in one corner beneath burgundy and gold drapes. The prisoners – sixteen in number – were brought in under guard, and gendarmes in spiked helmets were posted at either end of the dock and at all the doors of the court. The prisoners were dressed smartly in academic black, but their faces were a sickly prison grey, starved of light and nourishment.
Evgenia Figner glanced over to the public gallery from time to time, but although she must have seen him, she was too clever to show it. She sat at the front of the dock with a look of cool defiance that reminded him of Vera, her features thinner and finer than the last time he had seen her, dark hair tidily arranged in a chignon. The defendants were accused of writing and distributing inflammatory propaganda, and Alexander Kviatkovsky and two other men faced the more serious charge of plotting the explosion at the Winter Palace.
‘All sixteen will be convicted,’ Dobson had told him. Apart from Goldenberg’s testimony, read by a clerk with the lugubrious voice of an undertaker, there was plenty of supporting evidence – dynamite, a plan of the palace, false papers and the party’s pamphlets – presented to the court on a table before the judges. At best the defence attorneys were lacklustre, at worse incompetent, as if tacitly acknowledging it to be an open and shut case. From time to time there was mention of those still at liberty – Mikhailov, Zhelyabov, Perovskaya and a woman called Anna Kovalenko.
‘Did you see Special Investigator Dobrshinsky?’ Dobson asked when the court adjourned at lunchtime. ‘He kept glancing over at us. He’s sitting over there, to the right of the judges.’
‘No doubt a satisfied man.’
‘Not until he’s got the lot of them.’
‘He’ll never manage that, George,’ Hadfield replied with a weak smile, ‘not until Russia changes. Have you read the latest reports of famine in the south?’
Dobson’s face crumpled into a pained expression. ‘You may be right but really, is it sensible to say so here?’
When the proceedings resumed, Hadfield looked and found the special investigator seated beneath his imperial master, his face as drawn and grey as the prisoners’. He was careful to avoid catching his eye. The afternoon began with a fiery speech from Alexander Kviatkovsky justifying the party’s ‘red terror’ as the only course open to those who believed in democracy and socialism. He was from a good family, he spoke well, and Hadfield was stirred by his passion and conviction but struck too by the futile waste of a young man who would almost certainly lose his life on the scaffold. As for the others, they would be sentenced to penal servitude for life for talking and writing of democracy, calling for the overthrow of a despot. Their heads would be shaven, they would be marched from the St Peter and St Paul Fortress to the station, and from there to Kara in the frozen east. And in time, he knew, this would happen to Anna too.
‘All rise.’
The tinkle of a hand bell signalled the end of the court day. The judges were escorted from the room followed by the accused, almost lost within a phalanx of sky-blue uniforms. As the last was leaving, the special investigator slipped between chairs and walked across the courtroom towards him.
‘I’m glad you’ve recovered from your injuries in time to see justice done, Doctor.’
Hadfield acknowledged him with a curt nod.
‘Mr Dobson.’ Dobrshinsky offered the correspondent his hand. ‘I hope you’re taking precautions,’ he said, turning to Hadfield again. ‘I can’t rule out the possibility of another attempt on your life.’
‘I’m careful,’ Hadfield replied quietly.
‘A terrible shock, really. You heard, I’m sure: the student was sentenced to twenty years. We’re still searching for his accomplices.’ Dobrshinsky paused then added, ‘and Anna Kovalenko, of course.’
Hadfield leant forward a little to peer at him with scientific interest, a frown of concentration between his eyes.
‘You’ll be relieved to learn that our sources suggest she is in Kiev,’ said Dobrshinsky. ‘You may be safe for a little longer.’
Hadfield was careful to let nothing in his expression suggest this jibe had found its mark. His eyes did not flicker from the special investigator’s face. Two seconds, three, four. Dobson cleared his throat nervously to break the silence.
‘Are you quite well, Doctor?’ Dobrshinsky did not attempt to disguise his irritation. Hadfield stared intently at him for a few seconds more, lifting his fingers to his lips as if wrestling with a particularly vexing problem. Then he turned abruptly to Dobson: ‘George, you must excuse us. There is something I have to discuss with the collegiate councillor in confidence.’
The correspondent was quite taken aback, but after a moment’s hesitation he nodded and took a few steps towards the door. The courtroom was empty but for the clerks gliding across the polished floor, tidying testimony and evidence from the tables.
‘Well, Doctor?’ Dobrshinsky asked when they were out of earshot. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Collegiate Councillor, it is a question of what I can do for you.’
‘Oh?’ Dobrshinsky raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Do you have information that might be of use to our investigation?’
‘No, no,’ Hadfield said with a brusque shake of the head. ‘In a professional capacity – as a doctor. You see, I have some experience of treating men with your problem – insomnia, stomach pain, a certain weakness of the body, loss of breath – it is a most pernicious habit.’
Dobrshinsky’s face tightened in an angry frown, the colour rising for once to his sallow cheeks. After a few cold seconds, he said: ‘I can’t imagine what you’re referring to, Doctor.’ He leant a little closer and Hadfield could smell the sickly sweetness of his breath and feel it against his cheek. ‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’
‘To treat you.’
There was an intensely hostile gleam in the special investigator’s eye. ‘Be careful, Doctor. The days are shorter. You may not be fortunate enough to escape a second time.’ He brushed past Hadfield and – ignoring Dobson – stalked out of the courtroom.
Society had twittered with the story of the handsome young English doctor beaten to within an inch of his life by terrorists. So fearless, so determined to bring His Majesty’s enemies to justice, an innocent victim who had treated the wounded after the explosion at the palace. General Glen had given a party to celebrate his recovery, anointing him beneath the martial portrait of his great-grandfather, reading a message of sympathy and gratitude from the emperor. His aunt had tried to persuade him to move from the island to a larger apartment – ‘You can afford it.
Everyone wants to claim you as their physician.’ And yes, he had found himself in the enviable position of having to turn patients away. But he refused to consider a change of address. If anything, he spent more evenings at home, and he had invested a little money in pictures and some furniture to stamp something of himself on the apartment. There were still society engagements on the embankment and at the embassy, evenings with Dobson and at the houses of rich patients, but more often than not he preferred his own company.
It was late one evening and he was sitting in his shirt sleeves before the fire with a book as usual when there was a knock at the door. The dvornik always thumped with the fleshy part of his fist and this was a lighter hand. To be sure, he picked up the small revolver his uncle had given him after the attack and held it to his side.
‘Who is it?’
‘An old friend from Zurich,’ came the muffled reply.
‘Come in then, old friend.’ He opened the door and kissed Vera Figner warmly on both cheeks.
‘Who else were you expecting?’ she asked, pointedly looking down at the gun.
‘I thought you would know.’
Vera frowned and reached out to rest her small hand lightly on his sleeve: ‘What are you talking about, Frederick?’
They were still standing in his hall, Vera in her hat and dark grey cloak. ‘I’m sorry. Come and sit beside the fire,’ he said, and he led her into the drawing room and helped her from her things.
‘Did Sergei the dvornik see you? It’s not safe for you here.’
But Vera had been watching the house for some time and had waited until Sergei had stumbled off in the direction of the tavern on Bolshoy Prospekt.
‘You look thinner, Frederick,’ she said, examining him with a clinical eye. ‘How long has it been? More than a year, and so much has happened in that time.’
So she knew nothing of the attempt on his life. He was relieved. ‘What has happened, Vera? We are still waiting for your revolution.’
To Kill a Tsar Page 29