by Amber Lough
“Of course.” I blushed and was grateful for the dark.
“I wish your brother well, despite how I feel about the war. You know I mean for our soldiers to come home so that no more lives are lost, right?”
“I know. It’s what we all want. An end.”
“Ah, but you want that end to be glory in battle, flags waving and trumpets blaring, and I want the end of the war no matter the cost.”
My mind flashed with the image of our white, red, and blue flag flying over an endless stretch of bodies, and I felt a little sick. “Goodnight, Sergei.”
His fingers flexed as if he were about to reach toward me, but he kept his hand at his side. “Till next time.”
—
Inserting a poisonous gas into a narrow chamber was not as exciting as I’d expected. The gas smelled like fly paper, and within minutes, my eyes stung. Everyone teared up despite the goggles, and since our hands were occupied, we wiped our damp cheeks on our shoulders.
Natasha Ivanovna, always present when we were doing something new, stood by the closed door, ready to pull it open should any of us make a fatal mistake. She held the corner of her kerchief over her mouth, as though her homespun wool provided some sort of protection.
I focused on the canister of chloropicrin I was holding. A bare skull was painted onto the side, half covered by my thumb. It was cold to the touch, almost painfully cold. Carefully, I lifted the canister and set the lid against the funnel propped into the grenade. It was an oily gas, and poured softly. I blinked back tears and made sure to stop at the right moment.
Fill, stopper, next one. Fill, stopper, next one. On and on until my stomach couldn’t stand the fumes one second longer. Keeping my hands as steady as I could manage, I set down my tools and raced out into the hall. Someone had wisely set up a few buckets, one of which I made my own as I vomited, gasping the fresh, clean air from the hall and weeping out the sting of the gas.
A hand squeezed my shoulder. “I’m getting you better masks.” It was Natasha Ivanovna. “They say they’ll be here next week. Until then, try to get as many filled as you can.”
I nodded because I still could not speak. Her footsteps faded down the hall until it was only me and my bucket. My throat ached.
I couldn’t do this anymore.
But I had to. I pushed myself up, wiped at my cheeks, and went back inside the room.
There might be a battalion just for women. The news invaded my thoughts. Women were being given a chance to fight. They didn’t have to beg for one or disguise themselves like the woman who’d fought in Maxim’s unit.
At the end of the day, I changed back into my skirt and blouse. Back into my shoes with laces, back into my hairpins and metal-framed stays, all of which were forbidden in the filling stations. Each layer transformed me back into the young woman I pretended to be on the street. Ekaterina Viktorovna Pavlova, the colonel’s daughter. Secret messenger for the Bolsheviks. Sister to an unlucky gambler who was returning to the war.
Masha was in the dressing room, ready to go outside. Her new hat with the silk peonies rested on her head, stuck into her hair with a pin as long as my hand, a gift from Masha’s Siberian grandmother. I’d never seen her leave home without it.
She gave me a curious look, with one of her barely-there brows lifted so high it was hidden beneath the brim.
“You look gassy,” she said with a smirk.
“Funny.” I re-braided my hair and tied it with a strip of linen. Then I pulled on my jacket. It was chilly outside, even though it was late April. “Do you think it will help?”
“The new grenades? Sure. How couldn’t they? Finally, our soldiers will have modern weapons. It has to do something.”
“But will it be enough?”
Masha tucked a lace shawl around her shoulders and tied it off. Her shoulders were high and tense, the only warning I had before she turned to me. “This is about Maxim, isn’t it? You’re worried about him going back.”
“That’s not it. I mean, yes, I’m worried. But it’s more than that. How will it all end? Will we win? Or will we run for the Steppes, the enemy at our heels?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. I can’t think past today. It’s too hard otherwise! My father is gone to fight. Half of our neighbors are gone too, or sent home wounded. The city has an odd echo, and now that the Tsar isn’t in charge, all I hear are cries for another revolution.”
My hand shook when I slid my hat pin in, and I nearly jabbed myself in the scalp. “I hear that too.”
When we parted ways that afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Sergei had said about me. Was I really the sort of person who wanted victory over peace? And if so, was that so bad?
“Once Prince Igor was dead, Prince Mal decided to marry his widow and kill his infant son.”
“Olga couldn’t marry the man who killed her husband! And she couldn’t let him kill her baby!”
“This is why people remember this story. Because she refused in a rather spectacular fashion.”
“How?”
“I know it’s hard for you, but please try to be patient while I tell the story.”
5
May 1, 1917
Over the next few days, I helped my brother collect and pack his things, both of us too polite, both of us watching the stiff, quick tick of the clock.
The day before he was supposed to report, I caught him pacing in the foyer. “What are you doing?”
He froze, then reached over and pulled the rusty umbrella from where it leaned against the wall. “I was just looking for the umbrella.”
“Do you bring an umbrella to war?” I asked, mirroring his insincere smile. I tried not to think about the recent newspaper articles detailing the army’s supply shortages. Units were running low on food, rifles, boots, and even smaller gear, like cooking pans and gas masks.
“It might help,” Maxim said, swinging the umbrella back and forth jauntily. “I could pop it open and block the bullets.”
This was my old brother, the one who’d brought me little bouquets of snowdrops wrapped in string and told me they’d been picked by a léshy. I didn’t know where he’d come from, but I didn’t want him to leave.
“Very stylish,” I said. “Mama would be proud.”
Instantly his face darkened. We never talked about our mother. “Well, that would be a surprise, wouldn’t it?” He jabbed the umbrella at me like a saber, stopping just before it hit my chest. “Think she’d be proud of a son who dies on the battlefield?”
“You won’t die,” I said, hating the quaver in my voice. “We’re making a new grenade . . .”
He lowered the umbrella. “How’s that going to help me, Katya? Honestly. The only thing that would help is if Russia quit the war.”
“They’re gas grenades. They’ll be more effective.”
“My dear sister,” he said, “it’ll take more than a few cases of poison gas to push the Germans back to Berlin. It’ll take every last Russian standing. And since that won’t happen . . .”
He shoved the umbrella back against the wall and was out the door before I could react.
Without the stand to hold it upright, the umbrella slid to the ground and landed with a clatter.
—
May 2, 1917
The next morning, I came downstairs to find Maxim in full uniform.
His wide leather holster was weighted down with his pistol, his winter overcoat draped his shoulder, and his buckles shone with fresh polish. He had the rest of his kit wrapped in leather straps and a canvas bag. For a moment, it looked as if he might say something, but instead he gestured at the bench by the front door. We sat down for a moment to fool any bad luck that might come our way. I didn’t believe in such silly things, but at the moment, Maxim needed whatever he could get, real or not.
Paulina came from the kitchen with a parcel wrapped in a tea towel and centuries of matronly knowledge. “You’ll want something to eat on the train,” she said. It was the same thing s
he’d said when Maxim had left the first time.
“Thanks,” Maxim said as he took it and tucked it under an arm. He kissed her cheeks before she retreated from the foyer.
I pointed at Maxim’s canvas bag. “Want help with that?”
He lifted his chin. “Go ahead and try.”
I rolled my eyes as I got up to grab it. It wasn’t light, but I managed to sling it over my shoulder. “This is easier,” I grunted, “than moving a case of grenades.”
He seemed more like the old Maxim than usual. His steps were lighter, his eyes brighter. It was odd, considering this was the day he was leaving to go back to the front.
“Katyusha.” He hadn’t called me that in years. “You’ve been amazing, bringing me back from the dead and helping me . . . And I’ve been the worst sort of brother.”
“Just the normal sort of brother, I think, under the circumstances.”
“Right. Let’s excuse all sorts of behavior for the sake of the war.” We stood there a moment, neither of us knowing what else to say, and then he shook his head, as if clearing away unwanted thoughts. “Let’s go.”
Outside the apartment, we climbed into the cab he’d arranged for. The sky was covered in thick, ruddy clouds, and the sun cast an oddly unreal light over the street and the accompanying canal. Everything looked falsely lit, as though the poplars, the rows of townhouses, and even the golden pedestrian bridge were all part of a giant’s toy train set. All tin and lead paint.
Once Maxim’s bag was stowed in the back of the cab, the driver cracked the whip and the horse took us away. I sat frozen, but Maxim twisted in his chair to gaze over his shoulder.
“A last look,” he said.
“Don’t say that.”
The city passed by quickly. By the time we reached the station, the clouds had parted and the sun was spreading out over Petrograd. Everything before me—the hundreds of uniformed soldiers, the wagons loaded with provisions, the colorful civilians running through it all—became a solid, clear crystal. This was truly happening.
I waited on the train station platform while Maxim brought his bag onto the officers’ car. When he came out, he moved like he still had the full weight of the kit on his shoulders.
“I suppose this is goodbye.” His eyes were on the train.
“They really are forming a women’s battalion,” I blurted. I didn’t know where the thought came from, but it brought his gaze back to the here and now.
He frowned. “You’re not thinking of joining that charade, are you?”
Another officer chose that moment to slap Maxim on the shoulder. He was wearing the same regimental insignias, but he had on the uniform of the cavalry.
“Lieutenant Pavlov! I didn’t know you’d be coming back.” His eyes skirted to me, and he gave us a knowing wink. “Ah, I’ll let you say your farewells to your girl, then. Plenty of time to chat on the train.”
I expected Maxim to correct him, to tell him I was his little sister, but he just gave the man a nod and turned back to me.
“You don’t mean to join, right?” he pressed.
“I don’t know. It sounds interesting. I could put all the time I spent watching Papa’s battalion to some use.”
He shook his head vehemently. “Stay here, out of the way. You can have your grenades, but don’t come any closer to the fighting than that. We’ll need you here when we get back.”
“I’ll be here,” I said. The platform was emptying up. Time was running out.
His shoulders stiffened, and he looked down the line of train cars. “Take care of yourself, Katya. When you get back, look in my room. I left you something that might help with your new grenades.”
I gripped him by the sleeve, suddenly struck with foreboding. “What is it?”
He shrugged. “You’ll have to look when you get home.” He looked down the line of train cars again. “Take care of yourself, Katya.”
I gave him a kiss on each cheek, knowing a hug would get me stuck on his pins, straps, and weaponry. “Take care of yourself.”
He gave me a cocky salute and then ducked into the train car, reappearing a moment later at the window where he flattened his palm to the pane. I pressed mine to the cold, dirty glass, aligning my hand with his.
And then the train began to move, and I was left behind.
—
When I got home from the factory that night, I went straight past the covered plate Paulina had left for me on the dining table and into Maxim’s room to find whatever it was he’d left behind for me.
I found his rubbery green gas mask staring at me from the middle of his bed.
He’d left it behind for me to use. Gently, I lifted it off its crocheted perch, feeling the weight of it. It smelled strongly of oil and soap, and the lenses were polished and clear. He’d cleaned it for me.
I fitted it over my head. It slipped easily over my braid and pinched my ears, but it fit well enough. The lenses were spaced a bit too wide, as if I was standing at the corner of a building trying to see both sides at once. I sucked in a breath and choked on dust, then sobbed a laugh because there was always something he forgot to do.
With a clean filter, this would protect my lungs while I filled the grenades with gas. I wouldn’t spend the day coughing or fighting nausea. I could work faster and make my quota every time. It was the perfect gift.
Except for one thing. I knew from the newspaper reports that the army’s supply of gas masks was running low. And Maxim might be an officer, but he was expected to fight alongside his men.
He needed his mask at the front.
“Prince Mal sent his men to Kiev to ask Olga to marry him.”
“He didn’t go himself?”
“No, and when Olga met his men, she asked if her people could bring them into the city by carrying them in their longboat.”
“That’s silly.”
“Yes, but they were told it was a great honor in Kiev. And they believed her.”
6
May 15, 1917
The next few weeks passed without so much as a whisper from Maxim.
A little weed of worry kept growing in the back of my mind, climbing into my nightmares and choking my throat at tea. I knew it was too soon for letters from the front, but I had hoped he would send me something from one of the stops along the way.
And now that Maxim was gone, the letters from our father wouldn’t come as often. Not that Papa was a particularly interesting correspondent; his letters were full of complaints about his troops, praises for his attaché, a Lieutenant Sarkovsky whom I’d never met, and the weather. He never asked a single question.
I kept working my shifts at the factory, and pouring the gas had gotten easier with my brother’s mask. During breaks, when the girls were talking about their lovers who’d gone to fight, I leaned against the courtyard wall and smoked a borrowed cigarette so that my mouth and hands had something to do. Masha usually left me alone so she could chat with the other paper girls, but today she rested a shoulder on the wall, facing me, and nudged my toe with hers.
“That’s two men gone to the front for you.”
I didn’t say anything.
“It’s just that it must be hard. I only have my father over there, and it’s enough to ruin my sleep.”
I dropped the cigarette and squashed it on the ground. “They’re not over there ‘for me.’ They left because there’s a war. I didn’t ask them for anything.”
“Yes, but they think they’re doing it for you. They think they’re fighting to save you. It’s a male instinct that, well, I sometimes understand.”
“I don’t need saving, Masha. And neither do you.”
She kicked at my squashed cigarette until it was nothing but little brown fibers scratched into the dirt. “We all need saving.”
At that moment, the metal gate facing the street banged open and a girl in trousers and a school cap sauntered in.
“Who’s she?” Masha asked, but no one answered.
The girl moved con
fidently across the courtyard to where we all stood against the brick wall. She held a stack of papers tucked into her armpit and handed one off to the first person she came to. Before long, she stood before me with a sly smile.
“If you want the war to end, read this and consider.”
I took the proffered flyer while she moved on to Masha, then the rest of the women.
“Can everyone read?” the girl asked, spinning around to get a good look at all present. A few women shook their heads, and she marched over to talk to them.
I bent my head over the flyer.
Women of Russia, prove yourselves stronger than the deserters. You, the spirit and strength of Russia, are needed at the Front! To fight!
Arise, brave women! . . .
The country has forgotten the honor of soldiers . . .
They are cowards, they are afraid
To defend us with their bayonets.
They have already made peace with the enemy . . .
Arise then for your freedom,
While it is not too late to fight.
You can bring happiness to the people,
Let the men do the washing!
Rally for the Women’s Battalion of Death at the Mariinsky Theater
May 21; 1800 hours.
Masha’s fingers were gripping the paper, now crumpled. “You’re going to join, aren’t you?” I asked her.
On the other side of me, one of the girls laughed. “I don’t think this is real. Just something put out by the Bolsheviks to stir up trouble.”
“That’s not Bolshevik paper,” I said, hoping no one would ask how I knew that. “It’s the same kind of paper the army uses for its official correspondence, I mean.”
“It’s real.” Masha’s voice was deep, like the words came from the darkest part of her. The truest part of her. “And yes. I will go.” She took my hand and covered it with hers. “You should too.”
I gaped at her. For weeks I’d been turning this over in my mind, yet it had only taken Masha seconds to make her choice. It seemed unfair that she should always be so sure of herself. “What makes you say that?”