The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Failing to halt the march, the ministers met that afternoon in an emergency meeting to prepare a plan for dealing with the situation. Cyril attended the meeting. All were present except Witte. Cyril wondered if Witte had been purposely ignored because the others feared he would side with the workers. More than likely, though, the pompous idiot was staying away in order to distance himself should something go wrong. The conniver!

  The ministers discussed the deploying of troops in the city and the importance of keeping the marchers away from the Winter Palace. Thousands of troops from as far away as Pskov had already been called in. The tsar, of course, would be nowhere near the Palace; he had returned to Tsarskoe Selo immediately after the Epiphany service.

  Any benevolence the ministers might have felt toward the workers dissipated when the Minister of the Interior showed the group a letter he had intercepted—from Gapon, intended for the tsar.

  Don’t be deceived by your ministers, it had declared. They are lying to you about the true state of affairs in Russia. They don’t want to see the people rise out of the depths of poverty. But the people know that Your Majesty would help us if you knew the truth. We have faith in you! So, we have decided to come to you tomorrow at the Winter Palace at two in the afternoon. Fear not to stand before your people and hear our petition. You will not come to harm.

  The man had gall. Gapon had indeed gotten much too big for his cassock. Thank God the tsar would never see the letter.

  The final topic on the ministers’ agenda was the question of when they would inform the workers that the tsar was not in the city. No decision was made. It was probably too late, anyway.

  During the night, gusts of frigid wind blew in from the Baltic. Snow swirled in the streets of the city. It was no night to be outside, but a soldier had no choice in these matters. Misha had been transferred from his duty at Tsarskoe Selo to assist in the bolstered patrol of the city. A few days ago three thousand troops had been present in St. Petersburg; now that number had more than tripled. Over ten thousand troops, including Cossacks, along with thousands of police—all to keep order for a peaceful workers’ march.

  Warming his hands over a drum fire, Misha turned down the vodka that was passing freely among the troops. They were cold and bored, and even they did not expect tomorrow’s events to require more of them than their stoic presence. The soldiers got drunk; they danced and sang. But Misha could not indulge in the night’s revelry. He didn’t like the look of what was about to happen. It reminded him too much of something in the past.

  Khodynka Field.

  It had started as a peaceful gathering of common folk—and ended in disaster. Why couldn’t the leaders learn from such things? Misha hadn’t yet figured out just what could be learned, but there had to be something. Sergei would know. There was probably no relation at all between the two events, but Misha could not get Khodynka out of his mind. And a knot formed in the pit of his stomach that would not go away.

  Misha did not pretend to know or understand Father Gapon’s designs, but Sergei had faith in the man. No matter what he intended for Sunday’s march, and regardless of how peaceful he wanted it to transpire, it seemed that with such a forceful military presence there could only be trouble.

  Gapon smoked several cigarettes and drank a glass of tea, but he could not eat. His throat was raw from all the speeches. Even away from the crowds, in the flat of one of his workers, he could not relax. There had been another meeting that night; he hadn’t gotten away from it until quite late, and he was exhausted. But there were last minute preparations to attend to.

  The leaders of tomorrow’s various contingents wanted a final blessing from the priest. Six columns of marchers would be originating in various parts of the city. They would begin at different times, depending on their distance from the city center, with the farthest having about ten miles to traverse. The times were synchronized so that all the columns would converge on the Palace Square at the same time. Gapon had given detailed descriptions of the routes to the police. He was determined to keep this within the law. The marchers didn’t expect trouble, but they were nervous anyway. The increased military presence hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  At the last minute, Gapon told the leaders to discourage women and young children from joining the march. As much as Gapon wanted to believe that tomorrow’s event would be peaceful, a gnawing fear persisted in him.

  Finally, long after midnight, Gapon went to bed, and at last fell into a restless sleep.

  Sergei returned home around eleven. Daniel had gone with him to the meeting with Gapon, and afterward he rode with Daniel back to his boardinghouse, then took the same droshky back to his own home. The flat was quiet and dark when he arrived. Everyone had gone to bed.

  Sergei was quietly tiptoeing down the hall when a footstep behind him caused him to stop.

  “Papa,” said a soft voice.

  Sergei turned to find Andrei, and even in the dim light, Sergei could see his son had a solemn expression on his young face.

  “You’re up late, Andrei.”

  “I didn’t want to miss you.”

  “You wanted to talk?” When Andrei nodded, Sergei said, “Let’s go sit in the kitchen so we don’t disturb anyone.”

  They sat at the table and Andrei hurried into his concern without further preamble. “I want to go on the march tomorrow, Papa,” the boy said earnestly.

  “I don’t think it will be appropriate for children to be present, Andrei.”

  “Papa, will I always be thought of as a child just because I am the youngest?”

  “Son, this is serious business, not a lark.” Somehow Sergei sensed he didn’t have to say that to Andrei, but he was anxious to think of some deterrent to his son. Everyone firmly believed this would be a peaceful event, but the presence of the troops was disturbing nevertheless.

  “I know that, Papa. Haven’t you noticed that I truly believe in freedom? I’ve listened to students at the university, and I’ve read things, too. Sometimes everyone jokes about the political things I say, but I think I am a revolutionary, Papa, like Uncle Paul. And I’m even more so now since the injustice done to you.”

  “Son, I’m sorry if I have made light of the things you feel. I suppose I never realized how deeply you felt them. I will try to be more respectful in the future. But, Andrei, one thing troubles me about what you’ve said, and I may as well mention it now. I don’t want you to follow the path of a rebel out of revenge for me. Injustice was done, of course, but remember, too, that it was the tsar who pardoned me.”

  “I’ll try to. But a tsar sent you away, and a tsar pardoned you—so it seems to me that only evens the score.”

  “Still, he is our ruler, and that is what tomorrow’s march is all about. Father Gapon is loyal to the tsar above all else.”

  “I don’t hate the tsar, Papa. You taught me not to. That’s why I’m asking to be part of this. When I grow up, I want to be able to say that I marched with the men who brought freedom to Russia. Please, Papa! Let me walk beside you.”

  “All right, Andrei, you can come. But you must stay with me the entire time.”

  A huge grin replaced Andrei’s solemnity, and a knot formed in Sergei’s stomach. This was his baby, Anna’s baby. Yes, he was almost as tall as Yuri, and certainly huskier, but it still was not easy to let him grow up. Perhaps inevitable, but never easy.

  69

  The blustery weather of the night abated by Sunday morning. When the sun rose at eight-thirty that winter day, it brought with it a crisp, clear sky. The temperature rose to twenty-five degrees. As if God himself had ordained it, they couldn’t have had a better day.

  Sergei rose at dawn, dressed in his best clothes, and breakfasted with the family. The women opted to remain at home. Anna hated crowds. For a while Yuri was undecided about what to do. Since Andrei had received permission to go, he would also be allowed to attend. But he didn’t demonstrate Andrei’s enthusiasm. Sergei suspected that the boy didn’t want to risk disappointing hi
s father by staying behind on such an important day. In the end, he left with his father and brother at half past nine.

  The Vassily Island contingent of marchers was already gathering for the procession. Oleg Chavkin and some of the workers Sergei had been tutoring had asked Sergei to join Gapon’s group, which would depart from Nevsky Prospekt.

  It was a forty-five minute walk to Gapon’s gathering place, and Sergei used the time with his sons to explain what was about to happen. They had a good discussion. Sergei was surprised by how much Andrei knew about the revolutionary movement, and—for a boy who hated schoolwork—how much he had read about political philosophy.

  On the way, they met a friendly gendarme who, upon learning their destination, wished them Godspeed and assured them there would be no trouble. The clusters of Cossacks and soldiers, however, seemed to belie the man’s words. Sergei wondered if Misha was in town. He thought he recognized a couple members of Misha’s regiment.

  Some fifty thousand had already gathered on Nevsky Prospekt. They got underway at about eleven, Gapon at the front surrounded by his guard. A huge portrait of the tsar was carried in the vanguard, and many smaller pictures of the emperor and empress were also held aloft. Many people also carried icons and crosses, and several men hoisted a huge banner that said: Soldiers! Don’t fire on the people.

  The marchers moved unimpeded down the wide avenue. They were a solemn group and radiated more of the atmosphere of religious ceremony than that of a parade. Many had experienced misgivings the night before when they saw the troops and had written farewell letters to their families. A confrontation seemed inevitable; many declared that they were prepared to die. But as the actual march began, they seemed to have put aside these fears. Instead, there was a sense of holy purpose, a sincere belief that this march would end, not in tragedy, but in a beautiful coming together of the “Little Father” and his people. Police even helped clear the way for them. And when the workers began singing hymns, many of the police even doffed their caps out of respect.

  “Save us, O Lord, Thy people!” rang tens of thousand of voices in united melody.

  In such a huge mob, it was no small miracle that Sergei saw Daniel shouldering his way through toward him.

  “I knew I’d find you if I kept toward the front,” Daniel said. “Do you realize that by the time all the groups meet at the palace, there could be as many as two hundred thousand people marching? This is absolutely incredible. I doubt my readers will believe it when they read it.” He held up his little Kodak camera. “I’ve got some good photos, though.”

  Sergei chuckled. “It makes me believe we might really get results this time.”

  “I hope so.” Daniel lowered his voice. “I’ve heard a rumor that the tsar is not even in town.”

  “I pray to God that’s not true, Daniel.” Sergei glanced around at the mob of people. How easily this procession could turn into a riot!

  “Anyway, I’m glad Mariana and Anna didn’t come.”

  Sergei restrained a glance at his sons. Had it been wise to let them accompany him? He had a strong suspicion that Andrei would have found his own way here had Sergei forbidden him. History was being made today, no matter what happened. It seemed right that his sons, whose Fedorcenko name already made them very much a part of Russian history, should be here this day.

  The throng passed the Kazan Cathedral and neared the Alexander Gardens not far from the Palace. Ahead, Sergei saw the great monolith of Alexander I dominating the Palace Square. Was the tsar Nicholas in residence at the Winter Palace? Was he now peering out a window at the procession, preparing to step out on a balcony to receive his people? It seemed like so little to ask of a ruler. These were simple folk who really did not want much—only peaceful lives, free from sickness and starvation, and the freedom to make of their lives what they could.

  With a single word, the tsar could grant his subjects’ deepest desire. It would cost him so little, and in return he would gain their undying devotion.

  Are you there, Nicholas? Are you waiting?

  Cyril Vlasenko wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead as he stared out his office window.

  By the saints! What a mob of people!

  His failure had allowed it to happen, although he’d never admit that to anyone but himself. But even he had never dreamed—it would have been more of a nightmare!—that the inconsequential priest could have organized such an event.

  He tried to think if there was any way he could directly be held accountable for whatever happened out there—especially if Anickin decided to strike during the march, though at this point that was highly unlikely. Nevertheless, all the funds paid to Anickin had been completely laundered. Only Cerkover knew of his involvement. Anickin and his American cohort—what was his name?—were the only other links. Anickin couldn’t have involved anyone else, for Cerkover had reported that the fellow didn’t even want to divulge his plans to Vlasenko.

  One thing Vlasenko hadn’t considered: What if the march were successful? What if the tsar did manage to receive the workers? But that was impossible. The tsar was twenty miles away in Tsarskoe Selo.

  There would be a massacre today. How could it be avoided?

  The troops had strict orders not to allow the marchers near the Palace Square.

  The only reason Misha could imagine for such a directive was that the tsar had no intention of receiving the workers. Did the officials think the mob would just disperse the minute the troops barred their way?

  Look at them—they were on a holy mission!

  Could a mere word from a soldier stop that? Misha prayed fervently it could. But he knew otherwise. And he had already decided his personal response. He would not use force, and he would order his unit to do the same. But his unit was only a fraction of the thousands of soldiers present. Did he really think it would make any difference? Was this just another way to assuage his conscience?

  The mounted Grenadiers were the first to move into position, forming a barrier across the avenue. Behind them were troops of infantry, their weapons held tensely. Did these men think they would use those weapons? Surely none of them wanted to.

  A bugle sounded and the crowd paused momentarily. Then, when no one made any real attempt to stop them, they began marching again. The police seemed actually to be encouraging them. Perhaps nothing would happen after all.

  Misha called to his unit, “Hold your fire.”

  Some of the Grenadiers fired into the air when the people started moving again.

  Some of the mob shouted, “We are going to see the tsar!”

  Then it happened.

  The Grenadiers charged the crowd. But the people grasped one another’s hands, still singing, and tried to hold firm. The Grenadiers broke ranks, but in an orderly fashion. At first Misha thought they were going to give way, after all. Then he saw with a sickening lurch in his gut that they were merely making way for the infantry. They were going to let the infantry do their dirty work.

  The foot soldiers broke through the opening the Grenadiers had made and started firing—not in the air this time, but directly at the crowd!

  The first to fall was an old man carrying a cross; he was trampled by the panicked marchers.

  “What are you doing?” a worker yelled.

  “Protecting the tsar,” shouted a soldier.

  “But we love the tsar. We wouldn’t hurt him.”

  No one was listening anymore.

  70

  Daniel watched, horrified, as the infantry drove into the procession, rifles blazing. This simply could not be happening.

  But it was!

  A man crumpled to the ground right in front of him and he would have stumbled over the body had Sergei not grabbed his arm, jarring him back to his senses, and nudged him around.

  Another regiment was rushing toward them from the Admiralty, while other troops were attacking from behind. Daniel was no novice to danger or battles; he had been in military encounters before. But this was different—the v
ictims were unarmed. They were singing hymns, for heaven’s sake!

  “Sergei?” Daniel implored. He could think of nothing else to add, he simply had to reach out to someone; he had to touch some element of sanity.

  Sergei just shook his head. His face was white, and he clutched Andrei and Yuri to him as if he would shield their young eyes from this horror. But he was not successful. The boys watched as men and women fell, bloodied and screaming. Pale and terrified, they clung to their father.

  Still the crowd would not give way. They had come to see their “Little Father.” He would save them if only he knew such things were happening.

  A woman stumbled, and Daniel stopped to help her. She looked up at him with plaintive eyes. “Where is the tsar?” she asked, tears streaming down her face.

  No words came to Daniel’s lips. All he could do was stare silently at her. She turned to another, a simply clad worker, and tugged at his sleeve, repeating the same question.

  The man’s broad, friendly features were knotted with confusion. Then Daniel heard the man utter the most incredible words he would ever hear from a common Russian man:

  “There is no tsar!”

  “Oh, God in heaven! Help us!” wailed the woman, stumbling on.

  An instant of panic gripped Daniel as he realized he had lost sight of Sergei. He didn’t want to be alone in this. He had heard Anna tell about Khodynka Field, and now he knew exactly how she had felt. He would be all right if only he stayed with Sergei. Wildly, Daniel looked around, a mumbled prayer on his lips.

  He pushed against the surging mob. Shots were still firing. Then just as he caught a glimpse of Sergei, he heard another shout.

  “The priest has been shot!”

  That had to be Gapon. Daniel was almost to Sergei. The boys were still hanging on to their father, but Sergei, hearing the shout about Gapon, now started forward. Daniel knew that Gapon meant something to Sergei, but was Sergei going to the very front of the throng, exposing himself and his boys to such danger?