The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  Ivanov and Dmitry stood close to where Trotsky was speaking.

  ‘I don’t think it’s going to work,’ Ivanov whispered to Dmitry.

  ‘It will.’

  Ivanov was doubtful. ‘How?’

  ‘The troops hate the Provisional Government as much as we do.’

  ‘That doesn’t guarantee they will not take arms. There are three hundred and fifty thousand of them, and only ten thousand of us.’

  ‘Think about it, Leon. Every one of those three hundred and fifty thousand men is fearful of only one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To be sent to the front. And that’s exactly what the Provisional Government has planned for them.’

  ‘So, if Trotsky promises to keep them at Petrograd …’

  ‘They will not take arms against the Bolsheviks in the event of a coup.’ Dmitry finished the sentence.

  A chill shuddered through Ivanov. ‘A military coup?’

  Dmitry turned so they were face to face. ‘What else?’ Checking over his shoulder he dropped his voice. ‘I heard a rumour today: Lenin is returning with immediate plans for a military takeover. This time, nothing will be left to chance. The coup is going to be stage-managed.’

  In October, the same rifles that were issued by Kerensky’s government to protect the city against General Kornilov, now faced the palace where the prime minister and his cabinet were meeting. Sporadic exchange of gunfire was followed by long periods of silence. Finally, as the night’s velvety cloak blanketed the city, the Red Guards broke through the barricades. The few remaining defenders protecting the palace offered little resistance.

  Ivanov and Dmitry, carried along by the wave of rushing feet, were swept in through the right-hand entrance. Once inside the palace, men fanned out. Ivanov and Dmitry followed a group running down the stairs, where they found huge packing cases lined up along the walls. Using their rifles, soldiers prised the lids open.

  ‘This must be the cellar,’ Ivanov said, looking around at the piles of carpets, linen and dinnerware strewn across the floor.

  ‘Get some of this into you,’ a guard said, pressing a bottle of wine into Ivanov’s chest. Ivanov took a swig and felt it flood his shivering limbs with warmth. Perching himself on one of the upturned crates, he watched proceedings, taking regular sips from the bottle. Everywhere soldiers were busy stuffing the contents from various crates into their coats and tunics. Finding an ostrich feather, Dmitry stuck it in his hat.

  ‘Stand straight, you worthless scum,’ Dmitry said, imitating an army officer. ‘You are a poor excuse for a soldier.’

  ‘Stop, comrades! Put everything back. This is the property of the people.’ A Red Guard commander shouldered his way through the men. ‘Don’t take anything,’ he ordered. ‘We are not thieves and this is the property of the people.’

  Across the room, other soldiers took up the cry. ‘The commander is right. Put it back, comrades. These don’t belong to us.’

  Ivanov, having already drunk most of his wine, was allowed to keep the bottle but everyone else returned their spoils. Dmitry looked crestfallen as he handed back the set of plates he was carrying.

  ‘Well, at least we have this wine to enjoy,’ he said, taking the bottle from Ivanov. ‘Come now, Lyova, let’s explore the palace.’

  Together they strode along the corridors, peering into the rooms. The old servants in their blue, red and gold uniforms mumbled nervously, ‘You are not allowed in there.’ Neither Ivanov nor Dmitry paid them any attention. At the door to one chamber, a guard blocked their way. ‘You can’t go in there, comrades.’

  ‘Why not?’ Dmitry asked.

  ‘We’ve got Kerensky’s ministers in there.’

  ‘And where’s Kerensky?’

  ‘He escaped,’ the guard said sheepishly. ‘He must have slipped out a side door. But don’t worry, comrades, we’ll find him.’

  Upon reaching the main entrance, Ivanov and Dmitry climbed the Jordan Staircase, staring in open wonder at the white marble floors, blue colonnades and gold baroque trimmings.

  ‘Look at this chandelier,’ Ivanov said when they reached the top of the stairs. ‘It probably cost more money than you and I could earn in a lifetime. And to think, there are probably hundreds like it in this palace alone.’ With his head reeling from the wine, he steadied himself against the railing. ‘It’s not right,’ he muttered. ‘The aristocracy should not be allowed to have so much.’ He turned to Dmitry. ‘The Bolsheviks must win power,’ he said passionately. ‘Only then will the workers and peasants have equality.’

  They continued to walk through the corridors for some time longer, stopping occasionally to look inside a room. Eventually, they followed a group of guards carrying furniture and heavy cases to waiting trucks and wagons.

  ‘Where do we go?’ Dmitry asked a Red Guard commander who was recording and marking the cases.

  The Red Guardsman looked up with tired eyes. ‘Where are you stationed?’

  ‘We share an apartment with our families.’

  ‘Then go home. Get some rest.’ He smiled. ‘You did well tonight.’

  Walking back across the Palace Square, Ivanov was in a relaxed mood. A youth climbed over the barricade and ran towards them.

  ‘Comrades,’ the boy called out, breathless with excitement. ‘Have the Bolsheviks won?’

  ‘Yes, young comrade,’ Ivanov said, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, ‘we won.’

  From across the road, Katya saw Fyodor rush over to the soldiers and exchange a few words. One of the men placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, making Fyodor beam.

  She had tried to keep him away from the revolutionary groups, fearing for his safety, but in the last few months he had started spending most of his spare time with a group of young radicals from the factory. Katya no longer felt she had any hold over him, and it worried her. Fyodor became increasingly secretive, often disappearing for hours at a time and refusing to tell Katya where he had been. Pointing a crooked finger at Fyodor the day before, Madame Ozerova had complained he was shirking his chores and threatened to throw them out.

  ‘You’re an old capitalist fool and one day soon we’ll make you pay for your actions,’ Fyodor retorted.

  It had taken Katya an hour and several cups of chamomile tea to calm the old woman and persuade her not to evict them.

  The next day had started unremarkably. Fyodor had left before Katya was out of bed. After emptying the chamber-pots and brewing tea for Madame Ozerova’s breakfast, Katya left to join the breadline.

  Wind lashed at her face like icy needles. Gathering her cloak about her, she walked at a brisk pace, paying little attention to the soldiers milling in the streets. Passing one of the barricades, she nodded a curt greeting to the sentry.

  As soon as she reached the breadline, she realised something was wrong by the restlessness of the women.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked the woman ahead of her in the queue.

  ‘The second revolution has started. The Bolshevik Red Guards have taken over the telegraph and post offices. The garrisons and the train stations are all under rebel control.’

  Katya’s heart dropped to her stomach. Abandoning the line, she set off in search of Fyodor. Twice she went to the factory and both times found the gates locked. Noon cannons had boomed from the Peter and Paul Fortress when she followed a crowd to the Winter Palace.

  ‘Lenin’s Red Guards have surrounded the Winter Palace,’ a man told her. Around her, crowds waved red flags. Walking through the crush of people, Katya found Fyodor among a group of boys she recognised from the factory.

  Grabbing him by the elbow, she swung him to face her. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.’

  Fyodor wrenched his arm free.

  ‘I’m fine. I can look after myself.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?’

  Fyodor said nothing. Flashing her a dark look, he pushed his way deeper into the crowd. For a moment, Katya considered fo
llowing him, forcing him to return with her back to the safety of their room. In the end, she decided to make her way to the back of the crowd and wait.

  Later, as the crowd thinned, Katya’s eyes darted from one end of the square to the other, searching for the thin figure of Fyodor. She could not see him and was growing worried until the moment she saw him run across the road. Moving into the shadows, she watched his face light up with pure joy. He left with his friends, waving a red flag and singing ‘The Internationale’.

  This is the final struggle

  Let us group together, and tomorrow

  The Internationale

  Will be the human race.

  Katya stepped out of the shadows and leant against the building. Looking up at the sky, she felt a new heaviness weighing upon her heart.

  ‘Keep him safe,’ she whispered to the moon, ‘he’s only a boy,’ then hurried home.

  43

  Narva, December 1917

  Gauzy mist spread across the fields and settled in an icy film over the grass. Above the mist, the sky was as clear and pale as blue porcelain. Wearing heavy winter boots, Marie walked beside her father, struggling to keep up. They would normally use the motorcar or the carriage for the trip to the factory, but declaring that he ‘fancied a walk’, Monsieur Kulbas had asked Marie to join him.

  Buoyed by the popularity of the Bolsheviks, the workers at the plant had threatened to go on strike for a number of weeks. Herman Kulbas had heard rumours that a meeting was being organised, and hoped to reason with the workers and convince them not to strike. On reaching the plant, Marie and her father found the gates chained and a banner declaring the factory to be the property of the Soviet workers.

  ‘The audacity of those …’ Monsieur Kulbas’s lips clamped over the profanity that threatened to explode out of him.

  He marched towards the back gates, Marie hurrying after him.

  ‘To think,’ he grumbled, ‘after all I have done for them, they betray me like this.’

  ‘Please, Papa, calm yourself. Things will settle down. The whole empire is in turmoil.’ She caught his arm to slow him. ‘Everything will work out.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Marie. Not this time.’

  At the back gates, they saw the keeper. A stooped man with a bushy beard and fading blue eyes, Lomtev had been working at the factory longer than anyone could recall.

  ‘Monsieur Kulbas, thank heavens you are here!’ Lomtev shuffled forward.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Lomtev glanced over his shoulder nervously. ‘Those good-for-nothing thugs surrounded me this morning and took away my keys. May the devil take them, they nearly broke my arm.’ He rubbed at a spot above his right elbow. ‘But old Lomtev was one step ahead of them.’ Grinning, he tapped his temple with his wrinkled finger. ‘I have a second set and took them out as soon as they left me.’

  Lifting his shirt, he showed them the keys he had pinned to his waistband.

  ‘Good man.’ Monsieur Kulbas looked around them to make sure they were not being watched. ‘Hurry and open this door.’

  ‘They are having the meeting on the factory floor.’

  The factory, comprised of three two-storey grey buildings with angled rooftops and blackened chimneys, was surrounded on all sides by tall fences.

  Marie and her father followed Lomtev past the first building.

  ‘We should go through the back,’ Lomtev suggested. ‘They probably have someone guarding the front.’

  It started to snow as they ducked between the buildings. Stopping at the back door, Lomtev pressed his ear to the wood, listening. Satisfied it was safe, he tried his key in the lock, working it back and forth, loosening the latch that had grown stiff with frost. It took Lomtev several attempts to unlock it. Once inside, he ushered them to the canteen where the meeting was already underway.

  ‘What is the meaning of this? Who has authorised this meeting?’

  Marie had never heard her father raise his voice at his employees. A dozen heads turned in surprise.

  Monsieur Kulbas turned to the closest man. ‘I asked a question. Have you all gone mute?’

  A tall, blond youth stepped forward. ‘We are on strike against you and your family who have been living in luxury off the proceeds of our sweat and toil.’

  Turning crimson, Monsieur Kulbas trembled with rage. Squaring his shoulders, he faced his accuser. ‘I have never taken a kopek that did not belong to me. And I challenge any man who thinks otherwise to prove it.’ Thrusting his chin forward, he glared at the workers. Some looked at their feet, not willing to meet his eyes, but others met his stare boldly.

  ‘I have lived my life honestly,’ he bellowed, ‘and lost a son in the war.’ His voice wavered slightly. ‘No one can ask any man to do more.’

  ‘Workers, don’t be fooled by his words.’ The blond youth addressed the assembled men. ‘His family is rich because they have exploited people like us for generations. He speaks of hardship and honesty but they are just words to him. I say let’s put the strike to a vote.’

  ‘Vote if you must.’ Monsieur Kulbas looked each man in the eye. ‘But don’t vote blindly. Think about what you are doing. Most of you have been working for me for years. We built this factory together. Don’t throw away all that we have achieved on a whim.’

  But his plea fell on deaf ears and the members of the factory’s Soviet of Workers voted to go on strike.

  Forced to leave, Monsieur Kulbas looked shrunken as he walked through the factory gates.

  ‘It’s over.’ He disentangled his arm from Marie’s. ‘They have won.’ Increasing his pace, he did not turn to see if she was following.

  Marie watched his disappearing figure, wishing Nikolai was there to counsel her on how to help him. After the devastating loss of his son, Herman Kulbas had attempted to distract himself through work. Now that too had been taken from him, and Marie feared her father would descend into deep despair.

  Back at the house, Marie unlaced her boots by the front door.

  ‘How did the meeting go?’ Anna was waiting with a pair of silk slippers.

  ‘The gates were locked,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘When we did finally get in, Papa could not stop the men from striking.’ She could hear her parents’ muffled voices coming from the drawing room. ‘He is awfully angry.’

  ‘Those revolutionary hooligans!’ Anna helped Marie with her coat and hat. ‘Now all the workers feel they can behave as they wish.’

  Marie ran a hand over her clothes and hair. ‘I think I’ll join my parents.’

  ‘Zoya just went in with a fresh pot of tea.’

  Entering the room, Marie went directly to sit beside her mother.

  ‘Oh, Marie, your father has been reading me the most dreadful news. First the Tsar and his family were forced to leave their home, and now these radicals have attacked the Winter Palace.’

  Marie exchanged a look with her father. It was obvious he had not told his wife about the strike at the factory.

  Zoya placed a glass estekan beside Marie and took Pauline Kulbas’s empty one to refill it from the samovar in the far corner of the room.

  ‘The papers say that the women’s battalion sent to defend the palace was massacred.’ Madame Kulbas blew her nose delicately into a handkerchief. ‘That Lenin is an animal.’ She paused to accept a fresh glass of tea. ‘There’s nothing he will not do. His Red Guard thugs cause havoc wherever they go, putting wrong ideas in the workers’ heads.’

  Marie glanced again at her father. He was staring out the window. The paper, with the bold headline THE BOLSHEVIKS’ REVOLUTION, lay on his lap.

  ‘You seem lost in thought, Herman,’ Pauline Kulbas remarked. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Herman Kulbas blinked. ‘Well …’ He picked up the paper and flicked through it until he found the article he was looking for. ‘It appears Lenin wants to sign a peace treaty with the Germans.’

  ‘That spineless villain! But I suppose an end to the fighting can o
nly be a good thing.’

  Monsieur Kulbas regarded her with a defeated expression. ‘Lenin might be wanting an end to the war, but he won’t be putting an end to the hostilities. With the war no longer a concern for them, the Bolsheviks will be free to push forward with their policies of seizing land and nationalising the factories.’

  ‘That man is a traitor and a spy. To think we lost our precious Nikolai just to end up …’ Madame Kulbas could not go on.

  ‘Come now, Mama.’ Marie rubbed her mother’s back. ‘Maybe you should rest for a while.’ She helped her mother to her feet. At the door, Marie took a last look at her father.

  Herman Kulbas, having removed his glasses, held them at the end of his fingers like a man about to be hanged and was staring blankly at the tangle of trees just outside the window.

  44

  Narva, March 1918

  From the moment the Bolsheviks seized power, Lenin pressed his newly appointed war commissar, Leo Trotsky, to sign a peace treaty with Germany. In November, Trotsky travelled to Brest-Litovsk, a town close to the trenches, to negotiate the terms of the treaty. As negotiations continued, German demands grew and Trotsky argued with Lenin over signing a treaty that would be humiliating to Russians. In January 1918, the Germans gave the Bolsheviks an ultimatum.

  Trotsky stalled, still refusing to sign.

  On 18 February 1918, the Germans broke the truce, attacking Russian territory. Virtually unopposed, the German army entered Estonia. In one of life’s ironies, the previous day the Estonian National Council had issued a Declaration of Independence, declaring Estonia to be a neutral and independent state.

  Caught between the retreating Red Army and the advancing Germans, Narva endured days of relentless shelling. Exploding shells shook the earth and rattled the nerves to the point that the citizens thought they might go mad. As a precaution, Herman Kulbas ordered his family to sleep in the two large rooms downstairs.