But now, after nearly two months at the mission, my eyes are at last being opened. In Robbie I have met a man whose own life could have sent him to the depths of despair. He lost a woman he loved to another man. Then, in running from his heartache, he found his escape to be fraught with hardships and betrayal. He came upon the mission just as I have done, a man filled with bitterness and frustration. There he met and fell in love with the daughter of the head of the mission. The bitter walls around him began to be softened by her sweet spirit and her strong faith. Then danger struck, and in a battle for this woman’s life, Robbie lost an arm. Robbie admits that he had always been a man whose estimation of his worth had been wrapped up in his physical self. Thus the loss of an arm and the accompanying sense of dependency was a terrible blow for him. It was then that he could have truly abandoned hope, as I had done. If not then, he could have done so after the woman he loved and married died of a terminal illness.
Instead, by the example of the woman he loved and her wise father, Robbie began to see what it really meant to be a man. I see now that Robbie and I trod very similar paths, although I do not think I linked my manhood as much to the physical as he did. Rather, for me, it was bound up with honor and success (my limited concept of these things) and how others saw me. I had always viewed myself as a rebel of sorts, at least against the ways of my father. However, I see now that it still mattered very much to me how he and others perceived me. That I was essentially a failure even at my rebellion was an irony, to say the least.
At any rate, as with Robbie, my path led me to confront my manhood. And to do this it seemed only natural to look—as Robbie had done—to the prime example of manhood, Jesus Christ. Coming from a religious background that so emphasized the suffering Christ, the idea of Jesus as a man was quite a leap. But in a way, Christ’s suffering was also the essence of his manhood. Here is a man who laid down everything usually associated with manhood. He became reviled, mocked, and suffered the most ignominious manner of death known in his time.
Yet Christ’s response to all of this was not bitter rancor, but rather forgiveness. And surrender. To many men these are not the most manly of responses. Wholeness found in forgiveness? Strength found in surrender? It is so upside-down from what you would think. And I would doubt its validity if I was not faced daily with the results of such unusual thinking in the person of Robbie Taggart.
I spent much of my time at the mission studying this man Jesus, and also two of his sons—Robbie and his father-in-law, the head of the mission—whom I greatly respect. As I write this today, I am growing closer than ever to truly understanding these things. But I have never been a man of impulse. If I am to accept the things I am learning at the mission, and model my life after them, I will do so after much deep consideration.
Yuri read on until he came to the entry for March 5, 1882.
The official celebration of Epiphany was three months ago, but it was today, a mere hour ago, that I celebrated my personal epiphany—the day my Lord Jesus Christ was revealed to me in a personal way. Today my search, begun at a mission in China, came to a glorious culmination. I left the mission a couple of months ago after I found a berth as a seaman on a ship headed west. I could not sleep this evening, so I went up to the deck, as has often become my habit, just to think and enjoy the night sky. We were sailing along the west coast of Africa under full canvas. The sky was cloudy, so the reflection of the moon was dulled a bit. But suddenly other far more important things became crystal clear to me. My bitterness toward my father, my resentments toward God, and, most sadly, my own self-denigration.
I fell on my knees there on the deck at the bow of the ship, where, oddly enough, I was completely alone, as if God himself had arranged this precise moment. I heard myself cry, “I don’t want to live like this anymore! Please take away the anger and bitterness and unforgiveness in my heart. I have not been the man I should have been—not to my family, my country . . . not even to myself. But I want to be, God. I want to be a MAN! I want to be whole—”
But Yuri could read no more. His eyes had become so full of tears the words on the page had blurred. How could his father have known? For it was as if the words his father had cried thirty-five years ago were identical to the words Yuri himself had cried so often in the last year.
“I don’t want to live like this anymore!”
But now, through his father’s words and experiences, Yuri knew the answer to that cry. Forgiveness and surrender. And like his father had in this Robbie Taggart, Yuri also had an example to follow—his own father. That day on the ship Sergei finally was able to forgive not only those he thought had hurt him, but also the God he believed had forsaken him. And he had also forgiven his worst enemy—himself.
All at once the journal slipped from Yuri’s hands, and he found himself kneeling in front of the chair on which he had been sitting. Yuri decided then and there he was going to do only one thing differently from his father. He was not going to ponder this thing any longer. He was ready. There was no need for him to suffer a moment longer. He could be the man he longed to be, right now.
“Oh, God, forgive me for being so dense and so dull. Help me to cease this wallowing in self-pity. Help me to become a real man, a man my father would be proud of. I surrender to you, for it is so very apparent I am incapable of success on my own.”
Fifteen minutes later, a soft voice floated to Yuri’s ears as he still knelt in the parlor.
“Yuri, are you alright?” It was Katya.
He glanced up and smiled, beckoning her to come to him.
“Yes, I believe I am,” he said. “I believe I finally am.”
“I haven’t seen you smile like that in such a long time.” She came close and lay a hand on his shoulder.
“Let me tell you about it, Katya.”
And although it was the early hours of the morning and he had had no sleep since the previous morning, Yuri felt oddly revived. He and Katya talked until the first rays of the sun pierced the sky. By the time the first family member rose from bed, Katya had knelt down next to her husband and prayed a prayer similar to his. For even as Sergei had used the words “manhood,” it was clear this was really a place a woman must find also. Surrender and forgiveness and wholeness, of course, transcended gender. And Katya had long been seeking these things, and especially so since the terrible debacle with the Monk. Now it seemed so very right that she should find them with her husband.
They rose when they heard some clattering in the kitchen. Anna was there preparing the morning meal. She took one look at the couple and dropped the spoon she was using to stir the kasha. She ran to them and embraced them both. It amazed Yuri that his mother could tell. Was it really so apparent in their faces? Or had she been expecting, hoping, this would be the result of reading Sergei’s journal? Perhaps a bit of both. Nevertheless, Yuri did feel as if the new light in his heart must be positively glowing.
23
Though the political climate in the city was changing, there was still a warrant out for Lenin’s arrest, and thus he still felt the need to reenter Petrograd in disguise. He shaved his beard and donned a wig, while Stephan Kaminsky did the reverse, gluing a theatrical mustache and beard onto his usually clean-shaven face. A cold and cloudy October day with intermittent rain greeted them in the city. This was not the first time they had come to Petrograd since going into hiding three months ago. The most recent such foray came a couple of weeks ago when Lenin made another attempt to ignite the sluggish Bolsheviks into an armed uprising. As usual he had met opposition. This time even Zinoviev, his closest ally, came out in open opposition to him. Stephan had to wonder if Zinoviev’s defiance was mostly because his place as Lenin’s second-in-command had been given over to Trotsky.
Lenin was demanding that Zinoviev and Kamenev, the most vocal against him, be thrown out of the Party. “I no longer consider either of them my comrades,” he told Stephan.
Stalin, oddly enough, was urging Party unity, saying the exclusion of these
two men would harm the Party more than help it. Personally, Stephan thought Ilyich was being a bit too hard on his comrades, but he held his tongue. He had decided early on to follow Lenin’s course no matter what, partly out of loyalty but also because he intended on being in the right place at the right time when Lenin took power. Stephan was not going to let minor points of ideology or such prevent him from assuming as high a position as possible in the new government.
By the time Ilyich, accompanied by Stephan and a few others who had been in hiding with him, returned to Petrograd in mid-October, the Bolshevik Party hardly seemed in any shape to mount a viable bid for power. Tensions were high as the Central Committee met in a member’s apartment on the night of the twenty-third. It was perhaps ironic that this meeting of impassioned revolutionary leaders should take place in a setting so middle class with chintz-covered settees, heavy brocade drapes on the windows, tables topped with crocheted lace, and nice wool carpet on the floors.
“I tell you we will never be stronger than we are right now!” Lenin shouted, looking rather pale, no doubt because the debate had been raging for several hours.
“We would be fools to take such a risk now,” countered Zinoviev.
Stephan thought Zinoviev was being kind in not mentioning that immediately after the Kornilov affair Lenin had preached compromise with the Soviet. But that was before the Bolshevik victories in the Petrograd and Moscow presidiums.
Lenin eyed his former friend with venom. “It would not be foolishness but courage and supreme insight. Kerensky is barely hanging on. Do you wish to wait until he plants himself firmly once again?”
“It’s too soon after the July attempt.” Zinoviev wiped moisture from his spectacles. The room was unbearably hot, but this no doubt came more from the flames of passion than the meager supply of coal. “If we fail, we will surely be destroyed, not only by Kerensky’s forces but by the masses who will certainly lose faith in us. We need more time!”
“It would be to our eternal shame if we did not act! We can and will take power, if—and only if—we do not succumb to fear!” Lenin countered, the veins on his neck pulsating with his zeal.
Ten long hours later, after accusing the Bolsheviks of everything from being childish to outright betrayal, Lenin wrested a vote from the group and came out of it the victor with only Zinoviev and Kamenev dissenting. It was agreed then that “an armed uprising had become inevitable.” However, no one, not even Lenin, put forth a definite plan for a revolt, much less a date.
A week later, in Pravda and other Party newspapers, Zinoviev recanted his opposition to Lenin, followed the next day by Kamenev. The Party was closing its ranks. The Bolsheviks in the Petrograd Soviet called for Bolsheviks throughout the city to make a loud but nonviolent show of strength. In answer to this there were demonstrations all over the city, and meeting places were filled to over-flowing with supporters.
As Stephan exited the Smolny Institute, once an aristocratic girls’ boarding school now transformed into the headquarters of the Petrograd Soviet, and by degrees more and more a Bolshevik center, he took special note of the atmosphere of the city. Was it just his imagination, or was there a heightened sense of tension, almost palatable energy, in the chill autumn air?
True, the life of the city was not at a standstill by any means. Nearly all the theaters were operating. A new ballet had opened at the Marinsky and played to full houses. Though most of the treasures of the Hermitage museum had been evacuated to Moscow, there were still frequent art exhibits. The Salvation Army, newly admitted to Russia under the Provisional Government, had plastered walls with handbills announcing Gospel meetings, a true rarity in the Orthodox country.
But life was growing more difficult, especially for the common man. There was talk of decreasing the bread ration from three-quarters of a pound to a half pound per day. Only half the children in the city tasted milk. All other commodities were ever more scarce and expensive, when they could be found. People were standing on street corners selling their possessions—clothing, jewelry, books, pots, crucifixes. Even former aristocrats were selling valuables, while some had been reduced to sweeping streets or other menial tasks to earn a few kopecks for bread. Fear of the coming winter could be read in the faces of people everywhere.
Walking down Shpalernaia Street toward the Alexander Bridge, Stephan, as never before, sensed a nation ripe for revolution. Of course he hadn’t been there in February, but he was certain that now, after months of disenchantment, the country was about to explode. Any doubts Stephan might have had about Lenin’s insistence on an imminent rising were quelled. It seemed more possible than ever that a relatively obscure party could rise up and take the reins of the Goliath nation that covered one-sixth of the earth’s surface.
Stephan had been assisting Trotsky, who had taken control of the Military Revolutionary Committee of the Soviet. It seemed amazing that a man with no military experience could successfully take this area in hand. But Trotsky was nothing less than a wizard whose imprint could be seen in nearly all facets of the revolution. If it was Lenin’s strength of will that sparked the Party into action, it was certainly Trotsky’s incredible energy that kept it going.
Trotsky had already cajoled the garrison at the Peter and Paul Fortress to turn over their arsenal of weapons to the Proletariat. It would not be long before the prisoners incarcerated there would also be released. Stephan knew that Andrei was among those prisoners, and he might have been able to use his influence to get him released. But he had heard that Andrei’s memory had returned and thus he hoped that a long stint in the gaol might reignite Andrei’s revolutionary fervor.
Stephan was not exactly sure why he wanted to maintain a hold on Andrei. He had never quite forgiven Mariana Fedorcenko for rejecting him in favor of that American reporter. Oh, he wasn’t pining away in love with her—perhaps he had never truly loved her in the first place. But he simply did not like to lose, especially to Mariana, who had flaunted her new aristocratic status in his face. It gave Stephan a sense of poetic justice that her brother was his comrade and was stirring up strife in her family. Stephan had always thought that the Burenin clan—Fedorcenkos included—needed to be knocked down a notch or two.
But this accomplishment was small indeed compared to the greater, far more glorious victory that awaited him and the Party he had served for so long. In the near future, bourgeois like the Burenins and Fedorcenkos would either bow to the victorious Party or be consumed by it.
Stephan reached the apartment in the Vyborg district where Lenin was hiding. Inside, Lenin paced, totally frustrated to have to remain holed up while revolution was flaming outside. Stephan reported on the progress being made. All but two regiments of the Petrograd garrison were behind the Bolsheviks. The commander of the government forces well knew something was brewing, yet he had taken no drastic measures to halt it. All he had done was send one of the Women’s Death Battalions to guard the Winter Palace. These Women’s Battalions had been formed by Kerensky months ago in an attempt to shame Russian soldiers into keeping up the fight at the Front. Whether they had been successful or not was open to debate. But it seemed impossible that they would be enough to hold back the tidal wave that was about to engulf Russia.
The following morning, Stephan woke from a fitful sleep to the sound of voices in the front room. Hastily slipping on his trousers, he hurried out to find a messenger from the Smolny headquarters excitedly reporting to Lenin.
“The government forces have cut the phone lines to the Smolny,” he said. “They tried to occupy the printing presses but our men held them off. The cruiser Aurora was ordered to leave the Neva for the open sea.”
“And?” said Lenin impatiently. The loyalty of the Aurora had never been entirely certain either to the government or to the Bolsheviks.
“Trotsky ordered them to stand—and they have!”
“What about Kronstadt?”
“A call has been issued for sailors at Kronstadt to come to the city without delay.”
“Who made the call?” asked Stephan. The situation was extremely confusing, since both the government and the Bolsheviks were assuming command of the military forces in the country.
“Trotsky, of course. The government knows better than to rely on Kronstadt.”
Lenin turned to Stephan. “It’s finally happening,” he breathed.
“What will you do, Ilyich?”
Lenin strode quickly to a writing table, grabbed a pen and sheet of paper, and scribbled out a note. “We must make our move this evening or tonight,” he wrote. He gave the note to the messenger. “See that this gets to Trotsky. I will arrive there myself soon.”
“Don’t you think you should hold off, Ilyich?” asked Stephan.
“I will neither hold off my arrival at Smolny or the revolution. Tomorrow is the day, I feel it! The delegates to the Constituent Assembly will have arrived but will not have organized yet. The majority of them are Bolshevik, and if we present the opportunity to them, how can they refuse? They will give us the all-Russian backing we need for appearances’ sake, if nothing else.”
“There is still a warrant out for your arrest,” Stephan protested.
“I’ll see how things shape up through the rest of the day,” Lenin conceded. “If things continue to go our way, the government will have more to do than keep track of me.”
Stephan had expected no less. He also did not wish to be stuck in some apartment during the most crucial time in Russia’s history.
Lenin waited until midnight, then donned his wig. As an added protection against being recognized, he wrapped a bandage around part of his face. He and Stephan went out into the rainy night.
At the Smolny, its doors pressed with crowds of demonstrators, the Red Guard blocked Lenin’s entry. The Red Guard, a militia formed early in the revolution, drew its members mostly from the factory workers. Largely Bolshevik, it was ironic that the Guard was now in the position of blocking its leader’s path even if they could not recognize him. But the soldiers were very adamant about seeing passes before admitting anyone, and rightly so, since the crowds were not all friendly.
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