The very walls of the citadel of the tsar himself have been breached. At last a decisive blow has been struck against the forces of tyranny. That the blood of brave and virtuous Russians has been spilled in this noble cause is but one further impetus to continue the fight. Let not their blood be shed in vain! Arise now! Take up the cause of justice, of freedom.
Narodnaya Volya! The People’s Will is triumphant.
Demand that the voice of the people be heard and heeded! Demand that His Imperial Highness bow to that righteous will, that his evil henchmen pay for the innumerable crimes they have committed long before any bomb was laid in the Palace. Begin with the brutal and heavy-handed director of that reprehensible organization, the Third Section. The blood spilled in the Imperial Palace is on his head. He must pay!
Citizens of St. Petersburg unite! The world is watching. The oppressed of the world look to you as the vanguard of freedom!
He must pay, indeed!
Vlasenko spat on the floor. He would show them who would pay! They wanted vengeance? Well, he was an expert at that game! And with his job, his very future at stake, they would experience such reprisals as even their most villainous members could not imagine!
And the first thing he was going to do was destroy the press that had printed the garbage he now held in his hand. Perhaps he hadn’t yet been successful at apprehending the culprit who had laid the bomb in the palace. Perhaps that usurper, Loris-Melikov, had been lucky enough—and Vlasenko indeed attributed it to nothing more than luck—to purloin a few successes. But Cyril Vlasenko was not out of the capital’s power halls yet. If he was doomed to go down, he would not do so without exacting his own retribution. He’d take every revolutionary he could lay his hands on with him!
62
The underground propaganda that went on in spite of governmental censorship galled the Secret Police. Their own statements minimized the activities of the terrorists, and especially the most recent outrage of the bombing at the Winter Palace. But still the Third Section fumed at its impotence in stopping the propagandist efforts.
Some of the members of The People’s Will had argued against laying claim to the palace bombing. The deaths of innocents, they said, had incited public opinion against them, and now was a time to lay low. Others believed, and perhaps rightly, that they must grasp the offensive, declare their innocence, and shift blame where it properly belonged. Thus they had followed up the bombing with the fiery handbill that had quickly found its way into the hand of the Third Section chief.
Paul was manning the press hidden away in a corner of a tenement basement in the ignominious Tartar district of Russia’s capital. This was by far the largest and most important underground press; they regularly printed the leaflet Narodnaya Volya. Paul himself had helped write the most recent installment claiming righteous responsibility for the palace bombing. The ingenious phrasing that elevated the innocent casualties to the status of heroes of the revolutionary cause had come from his own head. Zhelyabov told Paul that if he didn’t have an adept hand with explosives, he would make Paul the official scribe of the movement.
And Paul had to admit, he did enjoy the clanking and rattling of the printing press, the smell of ink and paper. It all signified such vitality and motion, the very throbbing life of the movement to which he had dedicated his heart and soul, putting ideas and vision onto paper that would be distributed and carried far and wide. The dirty, dingy, noisy basement operation was in one way the very heart, the very life’s pulse of everything they hoped to achieve!
Two smudge-faced little girls sat in a doorway next to the grimy, trash-strewn alley.
One of them held a filthy, ragged blanket near her face while sucking contentedly on her thumb. The other, a year or two older, was occupied with a doll that appeared even more destitute and pathetic than she.
“You be a good little babushka and go to sleep,” purred the older child. She bent over and kissed the soiled wooden face. “Mama loves you.”
The sound of hurried footsteps intruded into the quiet scene. All at once a young man dashed into the alley, panting hard, and rushed by the children without even pausing to notice them.
The girls glanced up, but paid no more attention than he had to them. This was Grafsky Lane, and even at their age they knew it was not healthy to take too much interest in the goings-on around them.
The young man flung open a nearby door, bolted inside, and leaped down the steps that led immediately from the entrance to a basement.
“We’ve been betrayed!” he shouted.
“What?” came Paul’s shocked reply. His three companions joined in exclamations and questions of disbelief.
“No time for explanations! The gendarmes are only moments behind me. Flee for your lives!”
“But the press!” protested Paul. “We can’t leave it to them!”
“There is no choice . . . hurry!”
“Who betrayed us?” said Paul, dropping the engraving plate in his hands. The others were already heading out the door.
“Later, Paul. No time now . . . come!”
Paul hastily shut off the clanking press, still hoping, though futilely, he might hide its presence from the police. He then rushed up the basement steps on the heels of his companions.
But the gendarmes had already reached the entrance of the close. One grabbed the older of the two girls and shook her violently.
“A man just ran through here,” he demanded. “Where did he go?”
The child said nothing.
The gendarme shook her again, this time so hard she dropped her doll to the ground.
“Babushka!” cried the girl.
“Where did he go?” questioned the man again, moderating his tone slightly as a result of the girl’s tears.
Another man, puffing into the alley directly behind the contingent of six gendarmes, interrupted the interrogation.
“Forget the brat!” yelled Vlasenko, panting from the exertion of chasing the elusive young man. He was unaccustomed to such exercise, and since it was not expected for the chief of the Third Section to go out on the streets with his henchmen, he could well have shirked this duty. But with the tenuous state of his position and reputation at the moment, it could only help his cause if he were seen to be zealous enough to confront the terrorists in person. If nothing else, his detractors would have to admire his courage in leading the dangerous raid in person. “Seal off this corridor,” he added with authority. “We know he’s in here somewhere.”
A woman came into the alley and approached the door where the children had been playing. Seeing her daughter in the clutches of the police, she gasped.
“Please . . . don’t hurt my child!” she pleaded.
“We are not in the business of harming youngsters,” said Vlasenko. “But if you know what’s good for you, you will tell us the whereabouts of the traitors and insurrectionists.”
“I know nothing about them.”
“We know they are in this building. It will go all the worse for you if you protect them.”
The woman stood obdurately silent. She did indeed know of the young men who used the basement of the tenement. Her own brother was one of them.
“Please, my baby!” She clutched the younger of the two girls to her.
“You’ll never see this child again unless you talk,” said Vlasenko. “You will be arrested and your little girl here will be made a ward of the state.”
“Please!” The woman wept, wrestling inwardly with the dilemma of whether to protect her brother or save herself. But the awful thought of her children at the mercy of the cruel and heartless government finally overcame her loyalty. She jerked her head toward the basement door. God forgive me, she silently prayed.
At Vlasenko’s signal, the gendarme set the girl down none too gently. The contingent of secret police swept past the child, knocking her over and trampling her doll, which tore into four separate pieces, and stormed toward the basement door. The child cried, not for the bruise on her el
bow, but for the death of her babushka. She picked up the several doll limbs and held them close to her chest.
Just as the police reached the door, it burst open in their faces. Five young rebels ran head-on into the storming faces of Vlasenko’s men. Only the utter surprise of the encounter, and the fact that none of the gendarmes were armed, gave Paul and the others a chance to escape.
But if the police had no pistols, they did have nightsticks. They bashed several heads. One rebel fell unconscious; another was down, and an official continued the assault with well-aimed kicks at his head and back.
Paul and his two remaining allies fought back as successfully as they could, although Paul was bleeding profusely from his mouth where a blow had dislodged a tooth. They were trying to work their way toward the entrance of the alley. A few more steps and they could make a run for it. One of the three broke free, then hesitated before making a dash to safety.
“Go!” yelled Paul. “Warn the others!”
The young man was quickly followed by his comrade, and Paul too was about to make a break. In one last desperate burst of fury, Paul smashed his fist into the face of one of the gendarmes, and while the man still tottered from the blow, Paul spun around to escape.
But a hand shot out, seemingly from nowhere, and grabbed at his shirt. Desperately Paul wrenched around, frantically trying to pull loose. Swinging his head toward his captor, he was momentarily paralyzed with shock. The man was none other than the hated promieshik, Cyril Vlasenko!
“You!” growled Vlasenko, equally astonished to see who he had hold of. Even in the brief instant when their eyes met in recognition, Paul could not miss the triumphant glint in the man’s evil eyes.
In one wild and supreme effort, Paul jerked his whole body. The violent energy of his final outburst came as much from hatred as from the determination not to have his career as a revolutionary end so quickly. He was not ready to hang or rot in Siberia yet!
With a force of strength that surprised even him, Paul wrenched himself free and raced out of the close. Vlasenko staggered backward with the force, struck his head on the corner of a brick wall, and fell, unconscious.
Paul’s only concern at that moment was the hammering pursuit of four policemen on his heels. Swiping a hand across his bloody mouth, he frantically looked both ways down the street, but hardly paused to make a decision about the best way to go. He raced to his left toward the market, hoping to lose himself in the midday crowd, hoping that some conscientious citizen did not betray him along the way.
Dodging to and fro between kiosks and vendors’ wares, knocking a tray of sausages to the ground here, a stack of baskets there, Paul widened the distance between himself and his pursuers. The police were soon joined by the angry vendors, who did not like to see their meager profits destroyed by either police or rebels.
Soon Paul reached the end of the market. Facing the prospect of the open street, he ducked into another alley. Such a move could mean his capture, but he knew he could not run forever. Already he was beginning to feel lightheaded and weak from the loss of blood and the pain of the blow to his mouth.
The alley was deserted except for a couple of mangy tomcats. It was a dead end!
In mad desperation, Paul began pounding on all the doors, not knowing, not caring, where they led, as long as it was out of sight and away from the police. He shook several latches, nearly yanking one from its rusty nails.
But all of his efforts were in vain. Panting and sweating, he stood in the dark alleyway like a caged animal. Out in the street he could hear the booted feet drawing nearer.
One more time, he struck his fists against the doors. Then, at last, he gave up, leaned up against one of the locked doors, and closed his eyes, helplessly awaiting his doom.
“Over here!” came a hoarse whisper, as if from Paul’s distraught imagination.
He shook his head, thinking his mind was playing tricks on him.
“Here . . . hurry!” said the voice again.
Paul opened his eyes and wearily swung his head toward the sound.
A lad of about twelve or thirteen was standing in one of the doorways that had previously been shut against him. The boy motioned Paul to come.
Paul hesitated.
“Come,” the boy said again. “You’ll be safe here.”
“And what of you?” replied Paul, finally finding his voice.
“Don’t worry . . . just come.”
Paul knew that he was finished if he did not follow the boy, yet he was reluctant to bring danger upon another. Thoughts of Kazan’s hanging suddenly came into his mind. He was not ready to die, either!
He moved quickly and entered the open door where the boy beckoned him. As it clamped shut, he could hear the sounds of pursuit just entering the close.
63
Viktor Fedorcenko was not a man given to morose bouts of philosophy. Neither was he a man accustomed to rising early to stroll about aimlessly, contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Practicality had always been everything for him. He was a soldier, not a sage.
Nevertheless, he had awakened before sunrise and, unable to sleep, had gotten out of bed and dressed. Without realizing where his steps were taking him, he had walked outside and into the Promenade Garden just as day was beginning to dawn. It was a strange time of day to be out. No other sound accompanied his steps but the soft chirping of the birds preparing to herald the coming sunrise. On he walked, through this unfamiliar portion of his estate.
At last he stood at the very edge of his property, gazing out upon the swiftly flowing Neva as chunks of ice floated down the swollen March waters toward Finskij Zaliv. His feet were nearly frozen, yet he was unconscious of the cold. His gaze was fixed across the water upon the city in the distance. St. Petersburg, the tsar’s city, built and named for the tsar of all tsars. How would the mighty Peter have met the crisis that faced Alexander? Viktor wondered. With his iron fist, would he have met the rebel forces head-on, crushing them beneath the very might of his domination? Or would he too find himself helpless, a victim of forces he could not control with brute autocratic power?
As Viktor stood gazing across the river, the words a friend had recently spoken to him rose up in his mind. Intimately acquainted with the great composer Tchaikovsky, the man had read to Viktor a passage from a letter he had received from the musician shortly after the Russo-Turkish war. The words had made such an impression upon Viktor that he asked his friend to read them a second time. Now they came back to him almost verbatim.
We are living through terrible times, Tchaikovsky had said, and if one stops to think about the present, one is terrified. On one side a completely panic-stricken government . . . on the other side, ill-fated youths, thousands of them exiled without trial to lands where not even a crow flies; and between these two extremes the masses, indifferent to everything, waist-deep in the mire of their egotistic interests, watching everything without a sign of protest.
The composer could not have more succinctly summed up the horrors of the times into which they had all been thrust. The worst of it all was that there were no simple, clear-cut answers. If you hoped to be a moral man, it was not even clear which side to take. Where did truth lie—with the tsar, or with the rebels?
Viktor was horrified, appalled, outraged over last month’s bombing at the palace. Those responsible deserved the firing squad—nothing less. They had murdered fifteen innocents, and for that the guilty ones deserved to die.
Yet Viktor had to admit that he was nearly as incensed over the police raids and the cruel mass arrests that followed. What had Vlasenko done but provide additional fuel for the rebel cause with his ill-timed and heavy-handed tactics? But Viktor had by now learned better than to expect any middle ground in this country!
Russia had become a nation divided, warring within itself, countryman against countryman, brother against brother, father against son. He thought of his own conflict with Sergei, of Alexander’s strife with the tsarevich. How much longer could either t
he House of Romanov or the house of Fedorcenko stand with such division eating at their very cores?
Yet perhaps there was hope, at least in the case of the former. When the long winter night seemed darkest, only last week an unexpected ray of light, a remarkable injection of sanity, began to penetrate events in the Winter Palace. Viktor had initially been delighted that at last the tsar seemed ready to listen to voices of moderation with something more than polite boredom. And although it took an outsider to finally impress upon the emperor of Russia what Viktor and a handful of others had been trying to tell him for a decade, Viktor was not too proud to welcome the ally, no matter where he came from.
The voice that finally rose above the din was that of General Michael Loris-Melikov, the Armenian Governor of Kharkov, who had distinguished himself in the past war in the Caucasus, and had even won the praise of Dmitri Milyutin. Melikov had been summoned to St. Petersburg only last week, when the initial principles of his plan were unveiled to Alexander’s ministers and advisors. Viktor liked the man, in spite of the jealousy some of his colleagues felt at his sudden rise in imperial esteem. But Viktor tried not to be the petty sort—he was just glad the tsar was at last willing to heed a more moderate voice than that of the reactionaries who had been bending his ear for so long.
The most astounding precept of Melikov’s program was a proposal to grant the people a constitution.
Instant objections had sounded from all corners of the room that day.
“Peasants will come to power and take control of everything!”
“Never in Russia! The masses are different here . . . they must be ruled with an iron will!”
“What would you have, Melikov? Would you turn Russia into another England, or even worse—into a replica of the United States!”
“Wait . . . wait, please!” pleaded the governor.
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