by I. J. Singer
Students, workers, and women raced to the barracks of the Litovsky Regiment.
“Comrade soldiers!” they cried into the high windows. “Come out and join us!”
At some barracks the officers shut the gates, locking the soldiers inside, and stationed guards to keep everyone out; at others, they didn’t interfere and merely looked on.
The soldiers went out and joined the rebels. They went to those barracks that had been shuttered and smashed down the doors. The trapped soldiers swept aside their guards and joined their comrades. The street filled with workers, women, soldiers.
“Beat the tsarist lackeys!” they cried, chasing the policemen off corners.
The police vanished from the city. Minister of the Interior Protopopov cowered inside Tsarkoye Selo beside his beloved tsarina. If only the Holy Father Rasputin were alive to advise him.… All he could do was send telegram after telegram to the tsar at Mogilev.
The telegraph wires, bowed under the weight of snow and ice, carried two kinds of telegrams to Mogilev. From the Imperial Duma came lengthy telegrams describing the chaos and pleading with the tsar to form a new ministry which would be responsible to the Duma. From Tsarkoye Selo came telegrams filled with passionate endearments and stubborn pride.
“Be firm. Don’t give in, Nicky, for you are God’s Anointed,” the tsarina exhorted her husband. “I am with you, your loving wife, who beseeches you in memory of our savior, Father Gregory, to show your authority, your iron hand and send loyal troops against the rebels.”
The tsar in his Cossack greatcoat and fur hat paced in his headquarters, as he always did when faced with a decision. Nothing distressed him so much as having to think. All he had ever wanted was to be left in peace. He loved it here at headquarters, where there were no ministers, no conferences, and, above all, no decisions to make. He took a daily walk with his adjutants, dined with them at the officers’ mess, chatted about the weather. In the evenings he played a game or two of patience or dominoes, read a newspaper, glanced over his letters, listened to some reports from the front, read a French novel, wrote in his diary, sent a loving wire to his wife, prayed, and went to bed to sleep like a baby.
The entries in his diary were simple. He described the weather, marked down how long he had played dominoes, what he had had for dinner. Occasionally there was some unusual news about a hunt during which he had managed to pot a hare or a wild duck. His telegrams to his wife were more impassioned.
“Dear Wifey,” he would wire her in the evenings, “Angel, little dove, I kiss you fervently. I hold you in my arms and pray to God for you. My most passionate kisses. Your Nicky.”
All of a sudden this existence had been shattered. From all sides came telegrams which crisscrossed and contradicted one another. The politicians begged him to give in while there was still time, and his wife urged him not to yield to his enemies.
If Father Gregory were still alive, he would have asked his advice. The Little Father had helped him even from afar. He had advised him to hold the icon he, Rasputin, had given him and shake it seven times before he attended a staff conference. Another time, when he had sent him a new holy image, he had wired him not to forget to comb the pictured saint’s hair before making any decisions.
Now there was no one to turn to, and he didn’t know what to do. His adjutants were as indecisive as he was, the generals were strangers. He didn’t even know which of them was a friend and which an enemy.
For a while he did nothing at all. He followed his usual routine—played patience and dominoes, noted down the weather in his diary, and dined with his retinue. When the telegrams grew too demanding, he behaved like any henpecked husband and took the advice of his wife, whom he considered his mental superior.
The time had come to prove to Aleksandra that he was a man of character. She constantly admonished him to be as strong as his predecessors, Peter the Great, Ivan the Terrible. Now he would do it. He wouldn’t take a conciliatory stand but act from a position of strength.
He summoned General Ivanov and dispatched him to Petrograd to restore order. As usual, he couldn’t have picked a worse man for the job.
Soon after, accompanied by his retinue, he took the imperial train to Tsarkoye Selo in order to make a triumphant entrance into the city after the general had put down the rebellion.
But at Likhoslavl the conductor received a wire, signed by a certain stationmaster Grekhov, directing him not to take the train to Tsarkoye Selo.
When the tsar heard that some stationmaster had dared countermand the order of the emperor of Russia, the shock left him in a daze. His aides gathered ashen-faced around their immobile monarch. One of them suggested Pskov as an alternate destination, and the tsar nodded his agreement. He was willing to go anywhere but face that impudent stationmaster Grekhov. He dispatched a telegram to his wife: “The weather is dry and frosty. I long to hold you in my arms. I kiss you fervently and pray to God for you. Your Nicky.”
In vain he awaited a reply from her or from his minister Protopopov. Over the imperial residence as well as over all government buildings, offices, and barracks red flags now fluttered. The soldiers tore the epaulets from their officers’ uniforms. Minister of the Interior Protopopov, in whose hands the tsar had left the fate of his family and of the empire, was confined to the Peter and Paul Fortress along with the other tsarist ministers and guarded by troops of the Provisional Government.
Fifty-Four
THE PRISONER NISSAN EIBESHUTZ was overjoyed but not surprised when the call sounded in Petrograd’s Kresty Prison: “Comrades, political prisoners, you are freed by the revolution!”
Just as his father, the rabbi, had spent his whole life awaiting the Messiah and his redemption, his son had spent his whole life awaiting the revolution and its redemption.
He hadn’t been able to estimate its exact arrival, but he had never doubted that it would come—it was one of the inexorable laws of Marxism.
The war had only strengthened this conviction. Despite all the tragedy and resurgence of patriotism and nationalism it had brought, it had also signified the beginning of the end of the bourgeoisie, the demise of the old world.
At the secret party conference held in Petrograd during the first year of the war, Nissan had posited a very unfavorable prognosis for capitalism. The warring nations, which with their lust for new markets and greed for money had resorted to arming the proletariat, would be done in by that same proletariat.
The other delegates had scoffed at him as a simplistic visionary who counted his chickens before they were hatched, but he had clung to his position. The world war had revealed to him the contradictions of the corrupt middle class. Nissan had perceived the bourgeoisie as a body rotting from within, like an old corpse riddled by various ailments.
The secret conference had been broken up by the police, who encircled the building and burst in to arrest the participants.
“Here is your revolution!” his comrades had grumbled at Nissan with bitterness as they were herded into Kresty Prison.
“Time will prove me right,” Nissan had responded with assurance.
During all the time in prison he had never allowed a shred of doubt to mar his faith. His comrades had made fun of him. Each time a key scraped against a lock, they had sent up a chorus: “Here comes the delegation to free you, Comrade Nissan!”
But one day in late February the doors to the cells had opened, and voices had called to the political prisoners to come out.
“Comrade Eibeshutz, forgive us,” the others begged him. “You were the one with the foresight, not us.”
“Comrades, let us embrace,” Nissan said graciously as he kissed everyone, even the soldiers who had liberated him.
He climbed into the truck along with his comrades and rode through the streets of Petrograd which were jammed with workers and soldiers.
“Hurrah for our freed comrades!” the people cried.
“Long live the revolution!” the liberated prisoners responded.
&
nbsp; Like a boy on his first day in the big city, Nissan didn’t know where to look first. The atmosphere was festive, and everything filled him with joy. He kissed and embraced total strangers.
The city, which was saddled with the responsibility of determining the lives of the more than 150 million citizens of the land, was itself in a state of chaos and confusion. The factories were closed; the streetcars weren’t running; the police were nonexistent. The soldiers strolled about aimlessly.
The Duma was in total disorder. People wandered in and out at will. Whoever felt like it issued orders and decrees. The Provisional Committee was composed of persons from various camps and parties—from monarchists, who wanted to restore the tsar to power, to wild-eyed radicals and anarchists.
They talked, debated, argued, caviled. Soldiers kept bringing in frightened gendarmes, policemen, and officials, but there was no one to question them or decide their fate. Troops congregated around the Duma, awaiting orders. They had driven off their officers and needed new leaders to tell them what to do, but no leaders had materialized, and they turned to the Duma.
A stout, bearded individual, whose deep voice and dignified appearance made him stand out from the crowd, greeted each arriving regiment and congratulated it on joining the revolution. The soldiers responded with hurrahs, but they were still uncertain about what to do next.
Just as befuddled were the armed guards at the railway depots, bridges, post offices, telegraph offices, and other important stations. Military units kept arriving, but no one knew whether they were for or against the revolution.
In the Duma all kinds of rumors and tidings kept going around. There were repeated reports of the arrival of troops loyal to the tsar, and in the midst of conferences, the representatives made mad dashes to the doors.
Within the crowded rooms and halls of the Duma, people bickered, trying to form a stable government and restore order. But the conflicting ideals, concepts, and beliefs blocked any agreement. There were Monarchists, and Cadets, Progessives and Social Revolutionaries, Mensheviks, Bolsheviks, and Social Democrats, each further splintered into leftists and rightists, moderates and centrists. Some wanted a monarchy; some wanted the royal family imprisoned. Some wanted a socialist republic, and some, a dictatorship of the workers and peasants. Some called for instant reapportionment of land and an end to the war. Others wanted the war continued before they instituted a socialist government. Some insisted that Marxists could work hand in hand with the bourgeoisie; others disagreed violently.
In side rooms, soviets of workers and soldiers were formed to protect the evolving Provisional Government. To do this, the workers had to elect representatives in their factories, and the soldiers theirs in the barracks. But since the factories were closed and the soldiers were out in the streets, it was difficult to hold such elections. Therefore, whoever felt like it appointed himself a delegate.
In the midst of all the conferences and debates, men and women burst into the building and waved fists. “All you do is gab and gab while the workers are starving! Open the stores, and issue bread!”
The city was vulnerable to attack by any vandal.
Nissan threw himself into the effort of restoring order to the chaotic city. He joined committees and commissions, helped establish soviets, probed means of feeding the people, joined heated theoretical discussions concerning the interpretation of Marxist doctrine, helped conduct negotiations with generals and admirals about turning over power to the new order.
Following days of frenzied activity he would remind himself that he hadn’t eaten and look for a crust of dry bread or a glass of tea just to keep himself going. Nor did he have a roof over his head. After the days in magnificent palaces, he spent his nights on benches pushed together in sordid little rooms.
But this didn’t douse his enthusiasm. Each time he looked up and saw the red flags, the soldiers with the red ribbons on their bayonets, the streets thronged with workers, the royal monuments with speakers addressing crowds, joy surged through him again.
“It’s come,” he mumbled to himself. “I’ve lived to see it!” In his excitement he almost added, “Thank God.”
Fifty-Five
NEW LODZ IN PETROGRAD was back in full swing but with some exceptions. Instead of the two twelve-hour shifts, the workers put in three eight-hour shifts. For night work, they were now paid double time. The labor unions, now firmly established in the city, demanded higher wages for all workers and equal pay for women employees. Production was diminished, too, as more time was spent on meetings than on working. New holidays were celebrated every other day, and there were parades to which the factories had to send delegations. No employer dared deduct for such absences.
Delegates and speakers made frequent visits to the factories. Representatives of various parties came—Mensheviks and Bolsheviks, Social Revolutionaries of every shade from extreme left to extreme right. Each drew the workers away from their vats and looms and detained them for long speeches, to which the workers responded with equal applause regardless of what ideals the speakers espoused.
Max Ashkenazi was repulsed by such working schedules, but he kept silent. In the early days, when his factory had first shut down and the workers had poured out into the streets by the thousands, he had remained skeptical about the coming revolution. He well recalled the events in Old Lodz in ’05, when the workers had also spilled out into the streets, demanding freedom and brotherhood. Many of the Lodz manufacturers at that time had panicked prematurely and fled abroad, but he, Ashkenazi, had kept a cool head then, and he did so again. He knew that ultimately the shoemaker must return to his last, the weaver to his loom, the manufacturer to his office. That was how it had finally turned out, and things had returned to more or less normal. Despite the coddling they now received, the workers had gone back to their jobs, as he had gone back to his.
He had been exposed to workers all his life. He knew that they were always rebelling against something since it was in their character to whine. But ultimately they had no recourse but to bow their heads and give in. This was the way things had always been; this was how they would be in the future. In this world there had to be the rich and the poor, the rulers and the ruled, the content and the frustrated. Whoever had the skills, brains, and guts emerged the winner. Were things otherwise, the world couldn’t go on.
He, therefore, hadn’t grown overly concerned when the workers had walked off their jobs. “Nonsense, foolishness,” he told his associates from Lodz, who feared the imminent fall of the government. The moment the authorities resorted to stern measures and gave the rebels a taste of the bayonet, they would scatter like mice. His opinion of the Russian worker was—if possible—even lower than that of the worker of Lodz.
He rode through the streets in his carriage, observing the excitement, the scuffles between the people and the police, but he took little interest in it all. The moment the Cossacks showed up with their lances, it would all be over.
But when the Cossacks refused to fire at the rebels, the first stirrings of doubt set in. It was the first time the tsar’s soldiers had disobeyed their superiors. Still, he retained his faith in the status quo. An isolated incident, he thought. Soon other troops would come to punish the rebels. God knew, there was no shortage of soldiers in Russia.
But when entire regiments began to tie red ribbons to their rifles and tear off the epaulets—along with the heads—of their officers, Max Ashkenazi lost his assurance and began gazing with apprehension at the mobs in the street. “Has the world come to an end?” he wondered.
Each successive day’s events disillusioned him further. Ministers were being arrested and paraded through the streets like common criminals. When the imperial train was seized and the tsar forced to abdicate, Max’s senses reeled.
Not that he had any love for the autocrat. He knew that the Little Father had pardoned those who had taken part in pogroms. In one city, when the Jews had come forward to welcome the tsar, he had ignored them and acknowledged only the C
hristian clergy.
All this hadn’t filled Ashkenazi with any great love for the emperor, but he knew that the tsar was the most powerful individual in the land. After all, coins bore his image. And he couldn’t conceive how such a personage could be deposed by common workers and peasants, the scum of the earth.…
For the first time in his life he was in fear of the workers. He suddenly perceived a great force in those faceless lumps whom he had always considered something less than human, something created merely to work his looms. They could barely sign their names, and now they represented a force that sent shivers up his spine. If they were able to depose the tsar with all his millions of troops and gendarmes, what couldn’t they do to a mere manufacturer?
It was a meek and subservient Max Ashkenazi who opened the gates of his factory in the first weeks of the revolution. He didn’t know how to address his workers, and he walked on tiptoe around them. Before the union representatives could even pose their demands, he agreed to each one. He eavesdropped on the orators, but he couldn’t come to any conclusion since they were all of a different opinion. Some were for the war, and some against; some preached instant socialism, and others gradual socialism. And each spoke with the zeal of one who would not accept anyone’s views but his own.
Otherwise, he didn’t mix in, didn’t discuss the turn of affairs with anyone in the factory. He sensed that it would be best for him to keep silent, to watch, listen, and hold his tongue. But mentally he allied himself with the moderates, those who preached restraint and the continuation of the war to its ultimate victory. Not that Ashkenazi was a superpatriot or a militarist. Far from it. But war represented profits, and he barely restrained himself from applauding speakers who urged its continuation.