by Amber Lough
While the theater echoed in calls to arms and someone shouted questions about pay and training, Masha poked me in the ribs.
“Well?” she whispered. “Are you going to sign up?”
I did not want to wait any longer, alone in the apartment, for this endless war to end. I wanted to do something.
“Yes.” With that one word, my veins flashed with fire and I was alive. I was ready.
—
May 25, 1917
I was coming home from my last day at the factory when someone called my name just as I put my hand on the door.
“I didn’t know when you’d show up tonight.” It was Sergei’s voice. I whirled around. He was leaning against a lamppost, bathed in electric light. “I might have a bit of work for you tomorrow night.”
“I can’t.”
He pulled himself away from the lamppost. There was an alarming furrow between his brows. “You can’t, or you won’t?”
“I won’t be able to, because I’ll be in training.”
“Training.” It was a question. “For the new grenades?”
“Army training.” The words themselves felt almost as unreal as the idea, rolling off my tongue like lines in a play.
“You’re joining the women’s death battalion,” he said. “The never-wave-the-white-flag suicide battalion. Of women.”
“That one.” I brushed my hair out of my eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“It’s stupid. The whole thing is stupid. It’s a ploy. A stunt.” His jaw tensed, and I knew he was trying to hold back his temper.
“It’s not a stunt. The war is real, the enemy is real, the threat is real! And our soldiers are deserting by the thousands. Someone has to pick up their discarded weapons!”
“And it’ll only succeed in getting more people killed! The entire point of the death battalions and the shock battalions is to re-energize the war. To keep it going. Our soldiers are refusing to fight because they’re finally realizing they’re playthings, being sacrificed in the capitalists’ game of conquest and power. And you want to be a part of that?”
I would not argue with him, not here and not now. “If that’s how you see it.”
He cursed under his breath. “How can you not see it like that? You know what needs to happen for the revolution to continue. Ousting the Tsar was just the beginning. The Provisional Government has hardly changed anything. It’s shamelessly capitalist, leeching our men—and now women—and pouring their blood on the battlefields in tribute to riches and power.”
“So, to be clear,” I said, my voice cold, “your problem is not that they’re forming a women’s death battalion, but that they’re forming any special battalions? That they’re trying to keep Russia in the war? It’s not because I’m a woman?” I knew I was baiting him, but I couldn’t help myself.
“God, Katya! Yes, it’s because you’re a woman that I’m upset, but not because I don’t think you’d make a damned good fighter. I don’t doubt some women can be as strong as men. But I don’t want you to go.” He paused and rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t want you to die over something as stupid as this war.”
I looked up and smiled in spite of myself. “I could as easily die filling a grenade.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it? Making grenades is supporting the war. I don’t know if it’s any more or less helpful than being an actual soldier, but I’m not going to dwell on that right now. My brother deserted, Sergei. He got on that train and then got right off again when no one was looking. Soon enough, everyone will know that Colonel Pavlov’s son is a deserter. If he’s ever found, his life is over. There are no allowances for deserting lieutenants, you know, even with the Provisional Government’s newer, softer army.”
We stood there for several heartbeats, glaring at each other.
“Then you’re joining the army to make up for what your brother has done?” He asked, without any blame or anger now. As though he’d given up. The sound of his voice twisted something in my stomach. I couldn’t look at him.
“No. Maybe. But it’s not the only reason.”
“What’s the other one?”
For a second, I hesitated. Every other reason I’d come up with before—making my father proud or convincing the male soldiers they should do their duty to Russia—didn’t sound convincing enough for Sergei. He wouldn’t understand being left behind by everyone I’d loved. And then, thinking of Ilya, I knew what to say. “Because I’ll be good at it.”
His laugh was sour. “Of course.” He was suddenly only a hand’s breadth away. It was the closest we’d ever been, and with his eyes on my mouth, I was sure he’d try to kiss me. But he leaned over to my ear and whispered, “Keep an eye out for my mark, in case my comrades need you for something.”
He stepped back into the streetlight’s hazy beam, gave me a mocking salute, and turned around. I watched him saunter down the street until a drink cart passed between us and I lost sight of him.
Part Two
Soldier
“There is scarcely a town or school in Russia from which boys have not run away to the war. Hundreds of girls have gone off in boys’ clothes and passed themselves off as boys and enlisted as volunteers, and several have got through, since the medical examination is only a negligible formality required in one place, forgotten in another.”
—Stephen Graham, Russia and the World, 1915
“After the fire, Olga went to Prince Mal’s city herself.”
“Did he ask about his men?”
“She told him they were following behind her.”
“She was crafty.”
“Yes, but lying is a sin. Don’t forget.”
“If she was so sinful, how’d she get to be a saint?”
“That’s a different story. This is before, remember? Anyway, she asked Mal’s men if she could have a funeral feast to honor her husband Igor.”
“Uh-oh.”
“You’re catching on quicker than Prince Mal did.”
9
May 28, 1917
It was my turn. I walked up to the man sitting behind the typewriter, my limbs jolty from either nerves or excitement. Or both. The soldier’s mustache was thinner than a mouse’s tail and he was young. He asked my name.
“Ekaterina Viktorovna Pavlova.”
He started to type it in and then froze. “Colonel Viktor Pavlov’s daughter?”
“We’re a family of soldiers.” I pinched at the hem of my blouse, hoping he wouldn’t have heard yet of my brother. Bureaucracy I could live with, but not pity.
“Does he—uh—do you have permission from him to join the army?”
My stomach was cramping, and I crossed my arms over it. “Do I need permission?”
He shuffled the stack of papers, but he wasn’t looking at them. “If you’re under twenty, you do.”
I gritted my teeth. Boys as young as sixteen could join the army without their parents’ permission. As in everything else, women were reined in and controlled.
“My father left when the war began. I am independent of him. Of any family,” I said, thinking for a second of Maxim, of the bond that had drawn us together for so long. “I know my father will be pleased if I fight.” I hoped he would be proud.
“Private Moldov, is there a problem with this recruit?” Sergeant Bochkareva asked, stepping up to the table. Her voice was richer than I’d remembered from the theater, but it still barked loudly across the courtyard.
“She is underage, Sergeant, and doesn’t have written permission from her parents.”
Sergeant Bochkareva’s irritation shone in her eyes.
“My father is already at the front,” I said, “and my mother is gone. I have no one to get permission from.”
“Her father is—” began the soldier.
“I heard who her father is!” Bochkareva snapped. “I’ll ask again: is there a problem with this recruit?”
He gulped and looked at his fingers resting on the typewriter. �
��Do you have any physical ailments which may prevent you from joining the army?” he asked.
“I do not.”
The stamp was loud enough to make me flinch as he slammed it on my recruitment form.
After a humiliating hour of being prodded by doctors in places I’d never been prodded before, I waited against the wall with all the other recruits. Some turned away before they reached the typewriters, their eyes full of doubt and fear. Others swallowed that fear and took another step forward. And still others were sent away by the doctors, either too ill or too pregnant to fight. Sergeant Bochkareva made her rounds between our group and those still in the line, occasionally shouting out to the crowd, claiming we had been called to save Russia. We were the last hope. We would knock the Germans on their backs.
The energy grew, and I couldn’t help but allow it to build up in my own body. We were all excited. We were going to be soldiers, and we’d be right beside the men at the front.
Masha bumped into my shoulder. “Do you think we’ll all make it?”
“Through training?” I asked.
She picked at her nails, probably noticing they were too long for what we were about to do. “No. Do you think she’s right? That we’ll win? That we’ll survive?”
“Of course.” I squeezed her hand. “I’ll watch your back, and you’ll watch mine. We’ll be fine.”
Once the last woman was finished, Sergeant Bochkareva had us line up in four long rows that spanned the width of the courtyard. It took at least five minutes to get everyone quiet and in a somewhat straight line. Some of the women were quick to tell others where to stand, and there was a bit of a scuffle between two women in factory skirts. Sergeant Bochkareva was there in less time than it takes to freeze spit in winter, pulling them apart. She screamed at them and shoved them back into line.
“Women!” she shouted. “I applaud you on your bravery, but don’t be stupid! You are here to become soldiers. I will train you. And you will listen to every single word I say.” She paused, and the echo of her voice disappeared in the courtyard. “From this moment forward, you will do everything I say. You will run when I say to run. You will crawl when I say to crawl. And you will shoot when I say to shoot.”
The lines wavered as hundreds of women shifted on their feet. We filled the courtyard to the metal gate, and the low hum of hundreds of confused voices drowned out the last few words Bochkareva had said.
“Quiet!” Bochkareva shouted. “Take your things to the barracks and report to the barber in twenty minutes. The privates will guide you in the right direction.”
The lines started to break apart, and some women literally ran to the barracks, no doubt to find the best beds.
A wiry woman with a Tatar accent asked, “Why do we need a barber?”
I hadn’t considered it till this moment, but now it made perfect sense. Bochkareva’s own hair was shorn clear to her scalp. I leaned toward the woman and answered, “We have to cut off our hair.”
“But why? We can put it up.” She patted her tightly coiled knot at the nape of her neck as if to prove her point.
“It’ll still get in the way,” Masha said, pulling me toward the barracks.
“Imagine getting shot because your hair got caught in the barbed wire,” I called over my shoulder.
The barracks were already teeming with women, and we made our way to the back, beside one of the windows. Metal benches with wooden boards laid across them were lined up along the walls, and for a moment we stood there, staring at them. There were no mattresses.
“What are we sleeping on, then? Those?” asked a woman, gesturing with her chin at the benches. Before we could think too deeply on it, we each grabbed one for ourselves.
I slid my two bags of belongings beneath my wooden board. There weren’t any lockers, like in my brother’s barracks. Of course, his was for officer cadets. They had mattresses and pillows.
“Come,” a woman said, “We only have two more minutes.” She was the Tatar woman who had asked me about cutting our hair.
The three of us made our way through the clusters of other women, young and middle-aged, who didn’t seem to care about the time, and eventually found the hall with the barbers. There were five of them, with women lining up behind each chair, waiting.
The atmosphere had taken on that of a church. Many of us couldn’t help but pat our hair or finger the ends of our braids. I’d never thought much about my hair, but soon it would be trimmed off like a tree branch. My gut churned with a strange regret, but also with anticipation. Shaving our hair would be the first step to becoming genuine soldiers.
Sergeant Bochkareva was at the chairs, arms stiff at her side. When it was time, she raised an arm above us to quiet the few whispers.
“You wonder why you must have your head shaved,” she said. “Women keep their hair long. It is a feminine right. But from this day forward, you are no longer a woman. You’re a soldier. And soldiers do not have braids or hairpins. They shear their hair so they can fight without distraction. They keep it short to look sharp in their uniforms. And so you too, my brave recruits, will join the ranks of thousands who have done this before.” She pointed at the handful of recruits at the front of the lines. “Come.”
The chosen women walked reverently to the seats. The barbers draped them with cloths, then with one hand on the length of hair and one holding a pair of scissors, cut through years of femininity. Once the hair was short enough, they picked up clippers and sheared off the rest.
“Like sheep,” Masha said.
I nodded.
“It will grow back,” the Tatar woman said. “After the war.”
“I hear it grows a bit even after you’re dead,” I said, and immediately regretted the words as a few girls around me gasped. “Sorry.”
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Masha said, grinning.
When it was my turn, I steeled myself. I didn’t even like my hair that much. It was limp and fine, and anyway, as the other woman said, it would grow back. It was worth it not to end up stuck in barbed wire. But there was a feeling of finality about it, because once our heads were shaved, everyone would know we’d joined the women’s battalion.
The barber snipped my braid and my head was suddenly lighter. Then the shears started to chop at the rest, and within a few seconds, my scalp was cold and naked. I stepped away, rubbing at my head like every other woman before me. It tickled my palm.
Masha’s eyes seemed to have doubled in size now that her hair was gone. We looked more like tuberculosis patients than soldiers.
“What?” she asked with a laugh. “Do I look as funny as you?”
“If they put you on the posters, no one would fight us. You’d scare the enemy to death.”
She chuckled, then showed me her braid, coiled up on her palm. “I saved it for mama.”
After our shearing, we ate an early dinner of fish soup and bread at tables set up in an empty hall. Our voices carried, but most of us spoke in hushed tones, still breathing an air of reverence. Or perhaps fear. This was our first meal together. From now on, everything would be different.
When the food was gone, we were taken to a warehouse to receive our uniforms, boots, and a single sheet for our bedding. We carried it all back to the barracks and dropped it on our benches.
We were issued two wool shirts, two pairs of wool trousers, two pairs of stockings, and an overcoat for winter. We were also given special insignia for joining a battalion that fought to the death: skull-and-crossbones emblems and chevrons of black and red. All of it looked too big for me, but it would fit Masha well enough.
While we were going through the items, the woman who had followed us came to the bench next to me. Her thin, pale skin and lack of hair made her more skull than soldier.
“That’s a good idea,” she said, gesturing to how we’d laid out our uniforms. She rubbed at her newly shorn hair. “I’m Alsu Almas.”
Masha and I told her our names, and while we were talking, a group of six
women walked in and took the bench by the front door, their ages ranging from late teens to late twenties. They talked easily, calling out one another’s last names without hesitation. They seemed to know one another already, and I was curious why such a big group might have enlisted together.
“They’re from the Women’s Rights Committee,” Alsu said. “I was behind them in the line.”
Masha laughed. “Did they get a group bonus?”
Alsu took a look at the women. “They’re here to show that women can do all the same things a man can do.”
“That’s a weak reason to get yourself killed in battle,” Masha muttered.
“I thought you were in favor of women’s rights,” I said in surprise. All through our childhood Masha had always stood up to the boys, daring them to race her, daring them to call her weak.
“I am, but this seems like a stupid way to advocate for suffrage. We shouldn’t get the vote because we’re as strong as men, but because we’re as capable of rational thought as they are.”
A moment later, Sergeant Bochkareva entered the barracks. For the first time, she wasn’t flanked by male officers. This was the women’s barracks, after all. She was as impressive now as she was in the morning, uniform spotless, shoulders squared. The only detail that betrayed the fact she’d been standing all day was a slight limp as she walked along the benches.
“This is your last night in skirts,” she said. “Prepare yourselves, because when you wake up in the morning, you’ll discover the world has gone hard. And if you’re wondering why you have no beds, it’s because you’re being trained for war. When you’re at the front, you won’t find a bed. You have half as much time to prepare for the front as the men have, so we’ll waste no time.”
One of the women from the Women’s Rights Committee, a woman with heavy bags under her eyes, gestured that she wanted to talk. Sergeant Bochkareva grunted her acquiescence.
“We would like to thank you for organizing this for us. It is a great thing for women to be allowed to prove they are as brave and strong as the men. Finally, they will see that we are equals, that we can both fight on the battlefield and retain our femininity, that we—”