Over the last several weeks, Zhelyabov supplied explosives for Khalturin to smuggle into the Winter Palace. After accumulating over fifty kilograms of TNT, he laid a mine in the basement directly under the imperial dining room, using enough dynamite to blast the room to splinters—and most importantly, to end once and for all the life of Tsar Alexander II, last Tsar of Russia.
Yes, thought Paul, it was worth laying aside his desired vengeance against the Third Section chief to see the hopes of their movement at last fulfilled.
Slowly they made their way back to the rendezvous point. Zhelyabov carried a small bag containing coat, cap, and forged identity papers for their comrade—just in case anything went wrong with his escape from the Palace.
They both scanned the darkness for any sign of movement. He should appear at any minute.
58
At quarter past six, Lieutenant Grigorov, Cossack guard attached to the tsar’s personal wing of the Winter Palace, took up his post at the imperial study door, he on one side, another Cossack in identical dress on the other, both standing at rigid attention. Within moments the remainder of the retinue, of which these two had been the vanguard, appeared.
The emperor, Alexander Romanov, walked next to his nephew and namesake, Prince Alexander of Battenberg, newly elected Prince of Bulgaria. The tsar’s distinguished dinner guest had been expected some time ago, but due to a delayed train had only just arrived. The tsar, however, appeared unconcerned that dinner had to be postponed. The fact that the chef was near the point of heart failure over the expected ruination of his beef cordon bleu was of little import to the ruler of all the Russias. Dry and tasteless meat, cold potatoes, warm champagne—those were the servants’ problems, and mattered little as long as everything came out perfect in the end.
The emperor approached his study, chatting quietly with his nephew, giving no thought to the servants who had to stand in the dining room an extra half-hour or forty-five minutes. His only apparent concern was that his guest not be rushed to dinner before he even had a chance to wash the dust of travel from his hands with warm wash towels and from his throat with a slightly chilled before-dinner sherry. Dinner was delayed anyway, and His Imperial Highness thought the sherry would help calm his nephew’s travel-frazzled nerves and aid his digestion. Besides, he was in the habit of taking sherry before dinner himself, and court protocol must be observed, the unreliable Russian railway system notwithstanding.
Misha did not care much for diplomatic decorum, although he knew and observed every jot and tittle in his court position. He knew it was an honor to be selected as a member of the Imperial Cossack Guard. Yet every once in a while his heart yearned for the outdoors, to feel a powerful horse beneath him, to fulfill the purposes of his Cossack heritage.
Every time he heard fresh reports of the glorious adventures of the White General Skobelev in Central Asia, Misha found himself tempted to give up the great “honor” of standing guard at dinner parties and teas. Unfortunately, such a request on his part, especially during these tumultuous times, might be mistaken by his superiors. To be labeled a sympathizer toward the rebel cause did not concern him as much as being thought a coward for deserting his monarch when the need seemed greatest. And since the incident last summer when he had saved the tsar from the madman’s bomb out in the street, he had been a little more successful in convincing himself that his assignment was more vital than it appeared on the surface.
At least the tedious duty kept him near Countess Dubjago, for whatever that was worth. He was a fool, and he knew it. Yet he seemed powerless to change the course of his heart, which always returned to the countess as surely as the compass needle pointed northward.
He often pondered his ironic fate. He was a man whose breeding was, if anything, wild and free-spirited. A Cossack did not ask for a woman—he took her! Yet here he was, a slave not only to his duty, but also to a woman—and a pale, aristocratic one at that.
Sometimes Misha Grigorov felt far removed from his heritage, his true beginnings of blood and soul. In his deepest heart, however, he knew that he could never fulfill the Cossack reputation for untamed savagery. If he was not at peace standing here at attention, neither would he have been at peace carrying out many of the bloodthirsty exploits upon which the Cossacks of history had built their fame. He was, in fact, a gentle Cossack, willing to fight on the battlefield for a just cause and for the emperor, but unwilling to plunder and destroy for the sheer pleasure of ferocity.
Perhaps if he returned to his little village, he could find the balance of manhood he longed for. He’d find himself a hearty Cossack girl who knew how to treat a man better than the countess ever would, even if some day she did happen to notice him!
Misha was surprised to find Anna Yevnovna suddenly enter his thoughts. No, not even she could satisfy him, even if she were not already spoken for. He doubted he could take to the agrarian life of a peasant farmer. For him it must be either battlefield or steppe.
Yet here he was in the gilded corridors of the Winter Palace. And he would not even have this honor much longer if he did not attend more rigidly to his present duty! The emperor of Russia was in his care. It was not a responsibility to be taken lightly, especially considering those forces in the nation out to do him harm. A handful of Cossacks might be all that stood between the throne and revolution.
The tsar gave not so much as a nod at the two guards as he strode past them into his study. For ceremonies they were fine, but half the time, even with all the current troubles, he insisted on going about the city without his Cossack detachment. And if he did take them, he brought along only a few, which made their ability to guard him almost ineffectual. But Misha understood the man’s aversion to this ever-present reminder of constant danger.
From inside the study Misha heard a clock chime half past the hour. He wondered how long the delay before dinner would be. Not that it mattered one way or the other to him—his own dinner would have to wait for several hours yet.
59
Khalturin joined his co-conspirators shortly before 6:30.
He was breathless and, even in the icy temperature, perspiring freely. Quickly he threw on the coat Zhelyabov handed him, took the cap, and pulled it far down on his forehead. He glanced nervously around to make sure he had not been followed.
“You are safe, my friend,” said Zhelyabov. “We have been all the way up and down the street. No one is out. You have not been seen.”
“We must be off then,” said Khalturin hastily. “I had to push my way past one of the Cossacks at the outer gate. I made up a lie about a medical emergency, but they are sure to look into it the moment the bomb goes off. The man was suspicious, and he saw my face clearly. Come, let us go!”
“Not yet,” insisted Zhelyabov. “You are safe awhile longer. We must watch for the results of your work. How much longer?”
“Any second,” replied Khalturin. “In setting the timed fuse on the bomb, I only allowed myself the barest minimum of time to get out of the palace before detonation. That’s why I couldn’t let that guard stop and question me.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “It should have gone off by now. I tell you, I made the fuses short. I didn’t want to take any risk of discovery.”
“That is good,” said Zhelyabov. “We have had too many failures in the past, and we have taken too many risks with this attempt. It will not fail. Be patient.”
The three stood in Senate Square, having great difficulty masking their anticipation and keeping their eyes casually averted from their target. Remaining behind was foolish, and Khalturin kept imploring the others to go. But Zhelyabov was not willing, even for safety’s sake, to leave before the assurance of success.
He removed his pocket watch again. “Six-thirty, you say?” he asked Khalturin.
The carpenter nodded. “Don’t worry. Nothing can go—”
Considering past performance, the words he was about to utter were a bold pronouncement. But the statement, only half spoken, wa
s suddenly confirmed as a deafening blast shattered the night air.
The explosion was of such magnitude that it shook the ground beneath their feet two hundred meters away. They looked toward the palace but saw only billowing smoke and shattering windows. As soon as the echo from the terrific blast began to die away, screams and yells and shouts could be heard from inside the palace.
Khalturin, who had become intimately familiar with that particular section of the palace in recent days, vividly pictured the collapsing walls and the caving in of the floor, sending the elegantly laid dining table, the tsar and the imperial family into the basement. Falling bricks and boards, collapsing structural beams, further explosions of dynamite, fires, crashing chandeliers, toppling bookcases—splintered glass and flying plaster and roaring flame would consume them all!
Unconsciously, Paul glanced toward his comrades. He tried to make himself feel the same joyful exuberance as he saw in their eyes. This was the victorious culmination of all their hopes and dreams and plans. Everything had come down to this one delicious moment! Yet as he stood there, he could not keep other ugly images from crowding unbidden into some sensitive place in his mind where his heart still ruled—images of the injured, of innocent servants and guests. He saw blood. He heard the cries of agonized pain. Hadn’t Anna written that she had been in the Winter Palace a time or two? Hadn’t she even been close enough to the tsar to touch him? What if she—
No. She wasn’t here now! He had to push such thoughts away!
He shook himself awake in the cold night air. This was no time to drift off into such worries. No sacrifice is too great for the cause. Over and over he forced himself to say the words, trying to make himself believe them again.
No sacrifice is too great . . .
It did not take long for the entire area to come alive with activity in the immediate aftermath of the explosions, and Paul was spared having to dwell long on his confused and conflicting thoughts.
Squads of gendarmes and guards rushed toward the palace. Medical and fire wagons, most stationed not far off, raced wildly down the street, bells pealing furiously to announce their arrival. Crowds of spectators began to form in spite of the cold. Survivors poured out of the palace, swelling their ranks. In the midst of the mayhem, shouts of confusion and question and panic only added to the uncertainty of what had happened. And still smoke poured from the palace, adding vivid reality to the flying rumors.
“The whole palace is in flames!” shouted some anonymous messenger of doom running from inside as if in terror for her life.
“Hundreds killed!” cried another.
“Every minister dead!”
“The entire imperial family—gone!”
The three silent observers intuitively knew that less than half these reports could have any validity in fact. Clearly their plan had met with success, but who exactly had been killed—that was the critical question. Yet they could not stay around any longer to find out.
The place was crawling with the kind of people they made a habit of avoiding. And the initial confusion and throng of onlookers could provide cover for only so long. Soon the police would begin making summary arrests, as they always did, hauling in any spectator who appeared even vaguely suspicious or showed a little too much interest in the proceedings.
Still unsure of the specific nature of their success, the three separated and lost themselves in the growing crowd.
60
After the initial shock of the explosion, it took several minutes for the Cossack guards in the hallway to comprehend what had happened. The blast shook the floorboards so violently they were nearly thrown off their feet.
Still somewhat dazed and confused, Grigorov did not forget the object of his duty. He came to himself, then turned and grabbed the brass handle of the study door and flung it open wide.
The emperor sat in his armchair, his hands gripping the upholstered leather sides so tightly that his knuckles were as white as his stricken face. The prince was on the floor, struggling to get back to his feet. As Misha rushed to him, his boot crushed the shattered pieces of a sherry glass into the hard oak floor.
He took his arm and helped the prince back to his chair. After determining him to be unharmed, Grigorov turned his attention back to the emperor.
“Your Majesty, please forgive my unauthorized entry,” Misha stammered. “Are you . . . does there seem to be any further injury?”
“I am fine, Lieutenant,” said the tsar in a taut voice.
“You are not harmed or hurt?”
“No. Thank you for helping my nephew. What happened?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty. Some kind of explosion. I had feared it was here, in your study.”
“Thank God, no.”
At that moment several members of the palace staff burst into the room. “There has been a terrible explosion!” said the chief steward. “As far as can be determined, it was centered somewhere in the basement under the dining room—”
“The dining room!” broke in the emperor.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“We were to have been there by this time!”
“The fact that you were not saved your life. A fire is raging even as we speak.”
“But for a trivial fluke of the rails . . . ,” said the emperor, turning still whiter. “What about casualties?”
“Many, Your Majesty,” replied the steward, “though it is too soon to determine an exact count. Several scores of the Finnish Regiment are believed trapped under the rubble. And there were a number of servants in the dining room itself.”
“Dear God!” A moment more the tsar sat in benumbed silence, then suddenly jumped from his chair. “The empress! Has she been harmed?”
“Untouched, Your Majesty. I am told she slept right through the blast.”
“I must go to her.” His wife was dying, and despite the dismal state of his marriage, he did not want her to learn of such an outrage except in his presence.
Telling his nephew he would return as soon as possible, the tsar dismissed the Cossacks to give what assistance they could to the relief efforts, then hurried from the room toward his wife’s living quarters.
Even the horrors of the battlefield did not prepare Misha for what met his eyes as he approached the demolished section of the palace. All his thoughts about how tame this assignment seemed suddenly faded away. This present atrocity was all the more revolting because this wasn’t a battlefield. The victims were innocent. These were no soldiers trained for war and prepared to bleed and die for their nation. Here were servants, women and cooks, whose only crime was service to their tsar.
How could this have happened, here in the heart of Russia’s might and power? This palatial fortress was supposed to be impregnable! No one would believe that this disaster was a mere accident.
Once the fire had been contained, a preliminary investigation bore out the careful planning of the incident. Fragments of dynamite casings were found strewn throughout the rubble. The evidence proved the unthinkable: The terrorists had penetrated the very citadel of the emperor’s domain.
For the next several hours, Misha worked alongside Cossacks, servants, workmen, and firemen, first extinguishing the fire before it spread to other sections of the palace, then digging through the rubble, pulling those still living to safety, and carting the bodies of the dead to the waiting wagons that had been summoned from the morgue. The carnage sickened him. What kind of animals would knowingly do such a thing?
When the final toll was taken, fifteen had been killed and dozens more injured.
Was the world perched on the brink of insanity? Those people were lunatics if they thought all their revolutionary prattle justified this! Misha wished he could drag a couple of them in here right now and force them to extract the bleeding, broken body of a simple house servant—a man they were supposedly fighting for—from his shallow grave in the debris. But they would never witness up close the results of their “noble” cause!
Misha wip
ed a grimy hand across his eyes. If ever he wished himself able to shed tears, this was the moment. But there were no tears. A Cossack did not know how to cry; his only weeping came from the heart.
But if ever he wished himself able to shed tears, this was the moment.
Though what would be the use? Weeping would do no good. Misha Grigorov was a Cossack, a man of action. All he wanted was a slim revolutionary neck to get his hands on!
But there was no satisfaction for Misha that day. The only deaths he witnessed were those of the innocent.
61
Cyril Vlasenko knew he was in trouble. Heinous criminals did not penetrate the very walls of the Winter Palace without seriously compromising the position of the head of the tsar’s own Secret Police.
Vlasenko was walking on very thin ice. Heads turned in his direction, tongues wagged, and his enemies gloated. They all awaited his fall with anticipation, waiting for the iron fist of the tsar to come crashing down upon his head.
Vlasenko paced back and forth before the narrow window in his office, chewing on the cigar clenched between his teeth. His wide forehead actually oozed sweat, which dripped down the fleshy folds of his sallow cheeks. Then he remembered the handbill clutched in his sweaty fist.
The filthy swine! They should be ashamed to claim responsibility for the despicable act, for the innocent lives, and for the supreme failure of their attempt on the tsar. But as usual, the rebel scum had found a way to twist the truth to their own favor, and to make the government look bad in the process. And upon this occasion they had especially aimed their venom at the Third Section chief.
Vlasenko brought the crumpled paper to eye level, and again read the disgusting words:
To All Honest Citizens! Be it known that the struggle against evil is and must be the business of all loyal citizens of the Motherland! For three hundred years the noble people of Russia have lived beneath the weight of governmental terror: mass arrests, shipment to labor camps, crass brutality. Now is the time to loose the shackles of fear, of oppression, of bondage!
The Russians Collection Page 73