But more than that, Paul hoped Kazan might help revive the meaning in his life, now that he was cut off from family and home, and now that the hopes he had for an education were shattered.
In any case, he had nowhere else to turn.
4
Paul and his unsought companion walked a mile or two farther until they came to the Admiralty Quay. To their left, in all its lifelike bronze majesty, rose the statue of Peter the Great mounted on his rearing horse.
“Cursed tsar of the barons!” sneered Paul’s guide, continuing with several derogatory remarks under his breath.
Paul heard, but continued to gaze in awe as they passed. Here was a symbol of all he had come to despise, of the detestable Romanovs, of the hated tsarist government. Yet Peter also represented the very essence of the Motherland and its history, a history he had acquired a deep fondness for during his year at the Gymnasium.
Would his loyalties always be so torn? Would he ever find peace within himself?
They crossed Isaac’s Bridge to Vassily Island. The water below teemed with ships, small steamers, and pleasure barges, all taking advantage of the river now that the winter’s ice was at last melting and breaking up.
Paul had to admit he was fascinated and enthralled by this beautiful, odd, interesting, many-faceted city. St. Petersburg was contemptible to many Russians since Peter’s time because of its decidedly Western atmosphere, yet its buildings and streets and statues and broad avenues were so picturesque that they could not help but draw admiration—especially from a sheltered country boy. His old friends would no doubt scold him for his romantic notions of a city rife with poverty and corruption, housing all the hated bureaucracy of the tsar. He wished someone could help him put all his confusion into proper perspective.
As if to mock his youthful naivete, the first sight to meet Paul’s view as they reached the end of the bridge were the buildings of St. Petersburg University. He should have one day been a student here! He had cherished such a dream. His instructors at the Gymnasium had been hopeful.
But it would never happen now; he was branded as a troublemaker! And even though universities throughout the land were known for their wealth of troublemakers, Paul knew he would never have another chance of being accepted. They had told him upon leaving the Pskov jail that his name had been added to the government’s list of radicals. Should a purge occur, he was likely to be among the first arrested.
He was a fool to be so bedazzled by the stories and characters of Russia’s history. What was history but a whitewashed accounting of the government’s atrocities toward the common man? All the history that mattered lay in the books the teachers at the Gymnasium conveniently omitted from their curriculum; accounts of ill-fated boys fallen victim to evil—victims of selfish systems, corrupt governments!
Suddenly Paul was more anxious than ever to see his old friend Kazan. There was work to be done, wrongs to right, truths to be proclaimed to the unsuspecting masses.
“How much farther?” he asked.
“Some ways yet . . . do you need a rest?”
Indeed, Paul was quite out of breath. He had attributed his light-headedness to his growing agitation of spirit, but in truth he had eaten very little in the last week, and they had been walking at a brisk pace. And they did not possess enough coppers between them to hire even the poorest droshky.
“I’ll rest later,” he replied, shaking his head.
Except for a few nicer flats on the waterfront, Vassily Island drew its population largely from the working classes, minor civil servants, factory workers, and poverty-stricken students. Off the bridge they turned onto the street called Maly Prospect, to which the lowest of these lower classes had gravitated. Perhaps it was not the worst of slums in St. Petersburg, as it was rivaled by the Tartar district of Grafsky Lane and the shabby fisherman’s hovels along the Chernaya River, but the area was bad enough that even policemen were not apt to patrol the deplorably filthy and overcrowded section of the island except in pairs.
Paul had already spent more time than he wanted to in such places. He hoped his acquaintance might be leading him to better appointments. But apparently this was not to be the case.
They paused before a row of dingy tenements. Smudge-faced children with rags of clothing hanging from them played at some game with a faded, lopsided ball. An old woman with bent shoulders and a tattered black shawl wrapped around her shuffled past, giving the two young strangers a sour appraisal before moving on with a scowl.
Paul followed his guide as he ducked into a dark, drab courtyard between two buildings.
The structures towered above them, letting no sunlight reach the ground. The dirt in the narrow passageway was littered about with trash, old newspapers, rotting food, broken bottles, a dilapidated old chair, and discarded bits of clothing. The stale air reeked of filth, urine, and dog droppings. A breeze blew through the stinking corridor, and the odors rose up anew, as if to defend their right to hang putrid over this black hole.
At last Paul’s guide stopped in front of a door toward the rear of the narrow courtyard. He gave several sharp raps with his fist.
“Who is it?” came a muffled voice from inside.
“Valiev,” replied Paul’s companion. “I have brought you a visitor.”
“What visitor?” said the voice in guarded tone.
Paul’s heart leaped as he recognized his friend. “It is I . . . Pavushka!” he shouted, unable to restrain himself.
The next instant the door opened wide. Paul’s face brightened.
“Kazan!” he cried joyfully.
“It is you, my little protege!” said Kazan amiably, throwing his arms around Paul in welcome. “So, you’ve finally come.”
“I’ve been in the city two days.”
“Two days! And not come to see me in all that time?”
“I didn’t know where to find you,” said Paul.
“Well, no matter, my friend. You are here now. I thank you, Valiev, for finding him and bringing him here.”
“I will be on my way,” said the man known as Valiev. “I have other business to attend to. I am certain I will see you again,” he added, looking at Paul.
“How can I ever thank you?” said Paul, embracing the man warmly. “I am in your debt.”
“There is no debt among brothers in the cause, eh?” replied Valiev.
Again Paul wondered if he had misjudged this fellow.
“You are right there,” added Kazan. “And here is a true brother, you can be sure of that!”
Kazan closed the door firmly. The moment they were alone, he turned to Paul with a look of concern on his animated face.
“You look dreadful, Pavushka! How long has it been since you have eaten?”
Paul shrugged. The truth was easily apparent.
“Come,” Kazan went on. “Sit and tell me your story while I fix tea. I am afraid I can offer you no feast, but I do think I may find enough to fill that empty stomach of yours.”
5
As Paul sat in Kazan’s poor and dirty flat, he felt as though mere days rather than a full year had passed since he had last seen his friend.
Without hesitation or shame, Paul poured out every detail of his past year, surprising even himself with the tears the still-raw memory of Aleksi’s death produced from deep within him. For the first time since the ugly incident, he received sympathy and support for his actions. Kazan praised his courage and applauded his righteous wrath that had expressed itself so valiantly.
“They all made me feel like a vile criminal,” Paul said at length.
“Nonsense!” cried Kazan. “They are the criminals, you the champion of justice!”
“I would like to believe you,” faltered Paul, “but—”
“Did I not tell you your time would come?” interrupted Kazan. “You are truly one of us now, Pavushka!”
“One of . . . us?”
“Yes! One of the league. We can use you, Paul. Your timing could not be better.”
; “Then you are still involved in . . . the cause?”
“More than ever. And you will be also!”
“How . . . how will I—”
“Wait till you meet the others. We have purpose now. And we possess the leadership to enable us to fulfill our goals.”
“Leadership? You, Kazan?”
“As well as others. And, since Vera’s acquittal, we even have public sanction for our cause!”
“Public authorization—that is truly incredible!”
“Even the courts of the tsar may work for us in the end!”
“But who is Vera?”
“Come now, even in the provinces you must have heard of Vera Zasulitch.”
“Until Aleksi’s death, for the past year I concentrated only on my studies,” answered Paul in an apologetic tone. “I . . . I found it best to avoid association with political circles.”
“That is well. Your studies were important, Paul, and you need not apologize. But I must tell you about Vera. An amazing woman!”
He paused to chuckle.
“I suppose you have not heard of Trepov either?” he added after a moment.
Paul shook his head.
“Well,” Kazan began, warming enthusiastically to the prospect of fresh ears to bend to the will of his rhetoric, “Trepov is the chief of police in St. Petersburg. A more malicious, evil man it is not possible to meet. Even the aristocracy despises him. He ordered the brutal beating of a friend of Vera’s who was being held in the Fortress. The lad nearly died of the man’s abuse. And I understand that now, almost a year later, he is still plagued with a limp.”
He paused a moment before going on. “We were all incensed,” he said, “but Vera most of all. She wasted no time in laying her hands on a pistol. When Trepov received petitioners, as was his weekly custom, Vera filed in with the queue, drew her pistol from inside her coat, and emptied it at nearly point blank range. The no-good scum survived the attack. Vera was arrested immediately, and there was not the slightest question of her guilt. Dozens of witnesses saw the whole thing.”
He let out another hearty laugh. “But at her trial it was Trepov, not Zasulitch, who found himself actually in the dock. The public had no intention of allowing Vera to be convicted for firing on a man everyone hated, and the jury brought down an acquittal. The not guilty verdict met with thunderous cheers and applause from the listening crowd.”
“I can scarcely believe it!” exclaimed Paul.
“Believe it—I was there!”
“Is it possible apathy can so quickly turn into such support against the tsar’s regime?” asked Paul.
“I suppose disenchantment after the war has colored public opinion,” said Kazan. “The tsar may have won a technical victory for Russia, but certainly not a moral one. Good Russians sacrifice themselves—and for what? Nothing changes. Corruption grows in government, and the imperial iron fist becomes heavier. Look around you—nothing will ever change! The small minority bask in wealth and opulence, while the vast majority bears the crushing burden of taxes and labor and poverty. It will not change unless we make it change, unless we force change upon such a cruel system! The time has come for this change, Paul, and we must not let it slip by us! It has already begun, and you are just in time to join.”
“How? What can I do?”
“We are taking advantage of this change in the wind,” Kazan continued. “Who knows how long it will last? After Vera’s trial, the chief of the Secret Police, Mezentsev, was killed—stabbed in broad daylight on the city street. Prince Kropotkin of Kharkov was murdered a few months back, and just weeks ago unsuccessful attempts were made on the new chief, Vlasenko, and—”
“Vlasenko!” interrupted Paul.
“That’s right. Why? Do you know him?”
“Indeed I do! He’s from Katyk—a monster. I hate him!”
“All the more reason why, I say, it is good you have come. Here you will be able to direct that hatred to useful ends. Besides him, there was even an attack on the tsar himself! Why, there is not a minister in the city who dares leave his house without a Cossack escort. We have them all running scared, Pavushka!”
“But, Kazan,” objected Paul, speaking with hesitancy. “You are speaking of violence . . . murder. That is not what we talked about in Katyk.”
“Pavushka,” replied Kazan in the tender voice of an experienced mentor, although he was only twenty-two years old himself, “our failure in the country regions south of here has only proved, if nothing else, that change will not come to Russia on a gentle breeze, but only by a violent hurricane. Do you seriously think the Romanovs will relinquish their dynasty any other way?”
“I suppose not,” replied Paul slowly.
“Of course not! They must be brought down to a violent end, my friend—and why not? Their entire tenure since the early 1600s has been singularly marked by violence and blood—the blood of the people, our own countrymen, the very people whose protectors they are supposed to be. The time has come for the tables to be flipped upside down!”
“I don’t know, Kazan.” Paul’s tone betrayed that at seventeen, he did not feel equipped for the man’s business of murder.
“You will know, Pavushka,” rejoined Kazan, paying no attention to the other’s timid hesitation. “You will know when you see a brother die at their hands!”
Paul glanced up suddenly, his countenance marked more deeply than ever by the pain he suffered in Pskov.
“But I forget,” added Kazan more gently, “you have seen a brother fall by the hand of injustice. You do know what I mean.”
“I wanted to kill that day, Kazan,” admitted Paul.
“The feeling comes to us all sooner or later.”
“Sometimes I still want to kill that man for his cold-hearted, sneering words. But I am afraid that once I start I will not be able to stop. I will become just as unfeeling as the animals I despise.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Kazan, moderating his tirade. It was difficult to tell whether he did so momentarily only for the sake of Paul’s feelings, or if he genuinely believed the words Paul spoke. “Maybe that is what sacrificing for the cause means. We must sacrifice our very humanity to bring liberty to our beloved Motherland. Some of us must do this, Pavushka. Some of us must kill, even if it does make animals of us. There is no other way.”
They fell silent a long while.
Kazan busied himself preparing tea and slicing off several thick slabs of brown bread from a crusty loaf. Paul leaned back on the wobbly, unpainted chair, his mind reeling with shock and alarm at the frightening words.
Yet why should it surprise him? Perhaps Kazan had never spoken of outright murder before. But more than once he had declared that the Romanovs must be eliminated before lasting change could come to Russia. When the peasants had stubbornly resisted the idealistic messengers, Kazan had hinted that they would have to use more direct methods to force the peasants to help themselves. They had talked often of pulling the government down at its foundations.
It had seemed like only so much talk back then—talk to drive passions. The reality and ugliness could be kept at bay by the blindness of boyhood. But Paul was a hundred years older now. And if he felt shock at what he heard on this day, it was only because he could no longer deny the truth of Kazan’s words.
Kazan carried steaming glasses of tea to the table, along with a tray of bread.
“It is not much, my friend,” he said, “but help yourself.” He took one of the glasses, then resumed his own chair.
The poor fare and even poorer furnishings of the one-room flat reminded Paul that he had not heard Kazan’s personal account of the time since they had last seen each other. The last Paul had heard, his mentor was bound for Siberia.
“I was there a year,” Kazan explained. “I have only been in St. Petersburg about two months.”
“Was it terrible for you?”
The young revolutionary chuckled in reply. “You must think me crazy for my humor,” he said, “but we la
ughed there whenever we could. It kept us warm if nothing else. But to answer your question—a year is nothing. I met men who had been there ten years and more, their crimes no more heinous than the writing of so-called seditious books. The notion of Siberian exile might well prove the grandest imperial mistake made by the Romanovs. If we ever do succeed in overthrowing them, the seeds will no doubt have been born and nurtured in Siberia. We called our camp ‘the University of Revolution.’ Many a long winter’s night were spent exchanging ideas, crystallizing our goals, planning for the eventual destruction of those who had sent us there. I met many true heroes of our cause, and I learned more there than I could have learned anywhere else. The cold and ice and deprivation—it only strengthens you!”
He rubbed his hands together vigorously, almost as if he longed for the cold numbness. “But now it’s time to put that year of preparation to use,” he went on quickly. “Mere words must be turned into action. Ideas must become hard realities—guns, explosives, printing presses, pamphlets . . .”
He paused again thoughtfully. “Do you know what we talked about?” he asked after a moment. “Not comparisons of Herzen and Bakunin, but rather methods of tunneling and setting charges, falsifying travel documents and identity papers, who the best contacts were in Geneva, and what the targets of highest priority would be. All at the expense of His Majesty the Tsar!” Kazan laughed. “It’s a sweet irony: He put us together so we could discover the best means to overthrow him.”
Another pause followed. Finally Paul spoke.
“I have waited a long time to become part of your circle, Kazan,” he said, still overwhelmed by what he had heard. “Yet I never expected any . . . all of this. I don’t know if I can . . . if I will be useful to you.” The last words fell from his lips almost helplessly, for he could not bring himself to an outright repudiation of Kazan’s motives and methods and goals.
“Don’t worry, my young friend. You need make no commitments now. Only watch and listen—your heart will guide you.”
The Russians Collection Page 47