There were three taps at the door, the signal from the Volunteer Fighting Squad, which supplied the revolutionaries with weapons. Savinkov ushered in two beefy men carrying burlap bags. He opened one and pulled out a small gun.
“Very good,” said Savinkov, turning the gun in his hand. “A Browning automatic.”
“This is the last delivery,” said one of the men. “We’ve brought all we can.”
“You’ve got eighty rifles,” said his partner, “and more than a thousand revolvers and automatic pistols.”
“But we’re low on ammunition,” said Savinkov. “Any chance of getting more?”
Both men shook their heads.
“Sergei, bring over one of our signs,” Savinkov called over his shoulder.
Sergei grabbed one of the boards he had designed to recruit volunteers, and handed it to Savinkov. It read: We need you to help fight for democracy! Every recruit receives a Browning pistol.
“Can you distribute a few of these?” Savinkov asked the two men.
They nodded.
Sergei bundled some signs together with string.
“Distribute them immediately,” advised Gorky. “We revolt on December fifth, two days from now.”
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
The next afternoon, Sergei dripped with sweat as he sawed through a telegraph pole. Two men dropped a plank from a builder’s yard beside him. Across the street, a number of boys wrenched iron railings from their sockets and hauled them over to the growing pile of materials that included doors, advertising boards, and scraps of anything that would add to the growing blockade.
Snow fell, dusting the mound and depositing a thin, sugary layer on the ground. Sergei’s saw cut through the pole. He sat back, and surveyed the accumulated supplies. They were building the barricade across Tverskoi Boulevard, where it intersected Mohovaya Road, in order to seize control of the city. The goal was to block all Moscow’s main streets from Russian troops. At this very moment, other barricades were being built along the entire circular road surrounding the Kremlin, and wire snares were being set up on side streets, to keep the cavalry’s horses from getting too close.
A tramcar appeared down the road. Sergei watched, perplexed, as it moved slowly toward him. The electricity was out, which meant the overhead wires that powered the tram were useless. As the tramcar came nearer, Sergei heard grunting sounds and saw five men pushing it to the barricade. When they reached the intersection, they lifted the car off the tracks and rolled it into the center of the barricade to give it additional sturdiness.
Sergei and the rest of the revolutionaries piled more wood, telegraph poles, doors, and railings against each side of the tramcar. They lashed everything together with wire, and attached a small red flag onto a thin pole. One man hoisted it onto the tramcar and secured it in place.
The number of red flags flying from rooftops had increased dramatically since the previous day. This is it, Sergei thought. The rebellion has begun.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Bullets flew inches above Sergei’s head. He aimed his pistol and fired. A window came crashing down onto the pavement inches from Sergei. The noise of gunfire and shattering glass assaulted his eardrums. Sergei lowered himself to a crouching position behind the trunk in the barricade.
From behind, a revolutionary threw a stick of dynamite at the police. The explosion made Sergei jump. An officer’s horse veered backwards onto its hind legs and whinnied. Sergei felt a pang of sympathy for the innocent animal, and was relieved to see it hadn’t been injured. Smoke from the bomb shrouded the street for a few minutes. When it cleared, the corner of a building had been blown out, and the officers had retreated. For now.
The noise receded as the officers withdrew, but Sergei remained as tense as he had been since the revolt had begun four days earlier. The smallest sound made him flinch, and his hands shook uncontrollably.
“You’re to return to Gorky’s,” said a high-pitched voice close by.
Sergei jerked his head toward the sound, which came from a scrawny boy of ten or eleven.
So young! Menahem would be about your age, Sergei thought.
He made his way east, to Gorky’s house, constantly glancing over his shoulder to see if the police were following him. But now the revolutionaries controlled the streets. As he moved along the ring road, he encountered four more barricades manned by workers, students, and even some bourgeois who’d had enough of the government’s brutal authoritarian control.
Veering off the ring road, Sergei turned south into a labyrinth of side streets. At an alleyway, he came upon a motley collection of disheveled girls and boys throwing up a barricade made of chairs, shutters, benches, and logs. Sergei helped them position a shutter on top of a chair.
“Thanks, mister,” said the tallest boy, who appeared to be the leader. “Do you think this will fool the army?”
Sergei stroked his beard. “What do you mean?”
“We know this barricade is nothing compared to the ones being built by adults, but we want to confuse the troops.”
Sergei stepped back and inspected their work. “I think it’s a fine barricade, and it will surely baffle the officers.”
The children grinned. Not one wore clothing suitable for the frigid winter air. The girls had threadbare, stained shawls around their shoulders. The boys had coats that were either too small with sleeves halfway up their forearms, or too large leaving space for the icy air to seep through.
“You should go home now,” Sergei told them. “It will be dark soon.”
The children waved and scattered in various directions. Sergei turned up his collar and walked briskly to Gorky’s house, now a hub of activity. At the table, men and women were busily folding pamphlets, and a group of men studied a map on the wall that indicated barricade locations and the sections of Moscow under revolutionary control.
Sergei moved closer to the map. The entire area surrounding the top half around the Kremlin was in their control. Judging from the dots showing barricades, he figured there had to be well over a hundred.
“We lost almost all our men at Fiddlers Technical School today,” said Savinkov over Sergei’s shoulder. “Troops shelled the building for five hours, even when our workers waved the white flag.”
“Most of the hundred and fifty workers were killed,” added Gorky, stepping away from the table in the middle of the room to join Sergei and Savinkov.
“We need to increase the pressure,” explained Savinkov. “That’s why we brought you back. We want to bomb the headquarters of the Okhrana, the secret police, tomorrow night.” Members of the secret police had been responsible for shutting down unions, sending armed troops to political assemblies, and capturing revolutionary leaders.
Sergei took off his coat and hung it on a hook on the wall. “I told you I didn’t want anything to do with more bombing.”
“We don’t need you to throw the bomb, just to be an advisor, since you have the experience of setting off a bomb,” said Gorky.
Savinkov swept his hand across the map. “Consider the progress we’ve made with just fifteen hundred revolutionaries compared to their fifteen thousand troops. How can you say no when a total takeover seems within our reach for the first time ever?”
Sergei examined the map more closely. Six of the seven railway stations and several districts were under revolutionary control, with the Presnia district particularly well fortified. The troops and artillery were stuck in the Kremlin and the surrounding squares.
“I’d help to organize the bombing myself, only I’m trying to finish this pamphlet and get it out to every member of the party tomorrow,” explained Gorky. He handed his copy to Sergei, who read the first paragraph:
Comrades, our top priority is to hand over power to the people. We need to establish an elected government and introduce the 8-hour workday. We shall prove that under our new democratic government,
the rights and freedoms of everyone will be better protected.
“These words make everything we’ve done seem so official,” said Sergei. “As if we’re actually going to have a new government soon. Why do we need another bombing?”
“The Okhrana is still a big threat,” said Savinkov. “We have to shut them down before they come after us.”
Sergei pressed his thumb and fingers along the fold of the pamphlet. “Okay, I’ll instruct the bombers. But that’s all I’m prepared to do.”
11
Sergei and two young men were on their way to bomb the Okhrana headquarters, east of the Kremlin. They’d been dodging gunshots since they’d left Gorky’s place. Now, a bullet whizzed past Sergei’s head as he crouched behind an abandoned troika. His hair moved from the waft of air created by the bullet.
Silence. Sergei waited a few agonizing minutes before motioning to the bomb throwers, sixteen-year-old Arkady and fifteen-year-old Viktor, to follow him across the street. Sergei winced as they crept behind him, eagerness written all over their faces. Arkady, fair with white-blond hair and eyebrows, had acne on his nose and cheeks. Viktor, who’d insisted on carrying the bomb wrapped in the Iskra newspaper for good luck, had copper-colored hair, freckles, and cobalt-blue eyes that followed Sergei with complete trust and confidence.
Sergei recalled a recent article in the Novo Vremia, a Russian newspaper published in St. Petersburg, about this revolution, where Russian General Min had reportedly told his troops, “Act without mercy. There will be no arrests.” Sergei tried to push these words from his mind as he led Arkady and Viktor closer to their target. They’d entered the Ragozhskii District, still under government control, which meant soldiers would be lurking nearby. The closer they came to the Kremlin, moving within the shadows, the faster Sergei’s heart raced.
The Kurskii railway station loomed in front of them, directly across the street from the Okhrana headquarters. This station had not been taken over by the revolutionaries. Though the revolutionaries did have a barricade up ahead, which separated their territory from that of the government’s, Sergei had decided to attack the Okhrana from the government side, hoping to surprise the troops.
“You can go to the safe area, now,” Arkady told Sergei. “We’ll take it from here.”
Sergei shook his head. “No, I’m staying with you.”
“But Savinkov told us that you’d be going—” said Viktor.
“Forget what Savinkov said. I’m not leaving you.”
The three of them edged closer to the headquarters, a small, nondescript building dwarfed by more substantial structures on either side. The crunch of footsteps in the snow stopped them all in their tracks. A soldier marched past, ten feet in front of them, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Sergei held his breath until he passed.
Sergei gestured to Viktor to continue forward. The Okhrana building stood silent and dark. Arkady took his position as lookout, standing on the street corner, peering left and right. When Viktor stood about eight feet from the building, Sergei dropped his arm, the signal to throw the bomb.
“Run!” hissed Sergei as soon as the bomb flew from Viktor’s hands.
Viktor stood motionless.
“Run!” cried Sergei again.
Viktor raced after Arkady toward the area behind the train tracks.
The bomb detonated, showering the three of them with hot fragments. The ground shook. Sergei held out both arms to keep from falling down. Viktor stumbled, got to his feet, and kept running. From behind, Sergei heard the police shouting, “Find the damn rebels! Shoot them on the spot!”
Footsteps pounded behind them.
“Faster!” Sergei yelled at Arkady.
Sergei glanced over his shoulder. Soldiers. Shots fired, narrowly missing Sergei but hitting Viktor’s side. Viktor collapsed and clutched his wound. Sergei grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. Blood gushed from his side.
More shots. Sergei dragged Viktor and yelled at Arkady to keep moving. Viktor grew heavier with each step. His eyeballs rolled back.
“Stay awake, Viktor,” pleaded Sergei. “Don’t give up.”
Arkady tripped over the train tracks and fell, face-down. Shots zinged past as Sergei struggled to hold onto Viktor and help Arkady to his feet. Arkady’s face was covered in blood that ran from a cut on his forehead.
“Run as fast as you can,” Sergei yelled. “We’re almost there.”
They reached the train station, bullets flying all around them, and rushed into the building. Comrades, anticipating their arrival, helped Arkady to safety.
Sergei fell as soon as he and Viktor were in the protected area.
“He’s…been…shot,” Sergei said. “Help him…please!”
A revolutionary took Viktor’s wrist and checked his pulse. He looked up at Sergei and shook his head.
“Oh, no. No!” cried Sergei. He shook Viktor’s shoulders. “You can’t die…it should’ve been me, not you.” He rested his head on Viktor’s motionless chest. The metallic scent of blood filled Sergei’s nostrils, but he couldn’t let go of the boy.
Someone pulled Sergei up and held on to him as two men dragged Viktor’s body away. Gunshots continued to fire relentlessly at the station, but Sergei hardly noticed.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
After Viktor’s death, a heaviness settled over Sergei, sapping all of his energy and hope. Danger was the only thing that brought him to life. He didn’t think twice before offering to help fight in the Presnia district, where the fiercest battles against the government had been waged. Home to a hundred and fifty thousand textile workers, the Presnia district had barricades on almost every street. It had been shelled two days earlier, with hundreds of casualties and demolished buildings.
Today, December seventeenth, Sergei and a fresh band of revolutionaries stood at Krasnopresnenskaya Street with loaded rifles. Across from them, government troops had gathered in much larger numbers. The Semenovsky Regiment had just arrived from Petersburg, significantly increasing the number of soldiers. Just a road and thirty feet divided the two sides.
This could be it, thought Sergei, eyeing the revolutionaries’ battered guns and inadequate ammunition. The last day of my life. He considered this possibility with a detached coolness, as if he were thinking about a stranger’s potential demise, not his own.
A vicious wind whipped the snow and howled menacingly, warning of bad weather ahead. Yet even the wind couldn’t drown out the sounds of the irrepressible strikers throughout the district, who had been protesting for ten days.
“Long live the working people…we want freedom…”
Sergei listened to the chanting grow louder and more powerful by the minute. He felt numb inside, as if his veins were full of ice water. He’d heard these words before, felt the passion of the Russian people fighting for rights. But in all this time, he had never seen a positive outcome from these strikes or demonstrations. Only tragedy.
Gorky stood atop a barrel, giving a passionate speech, to the crowd on Krasnopresnenskaya Street beside the Moskva River. “Comrades! They say there are various races on the earth, Jews and Germans, English and Tartars, but I don’t believe it,” he shouted above the crowd. “There are only two nations, two irreconcilable groups—the rich and poor. The poor, the Russian working people, all lead a dog’s life. But on this day, the workers throb with one heart, for all hearts are lit with the consciousness of the might of the working people. Each and every one of you is ready to lay down his life for the happiness of all, for freedom and truth.”
A loud cheer erupted as Gorky finished speaking. Sergei’s eyes skimmed the crowd—an emaciated woman with her arms around two children in a futile attempt to protect them, a hunched-over man who would be trampled if the crowd grew restless, another with opaque eyes, a young woman watching Gorky closely, clutching a man’s arm. Sergei tore his gaze from the mob. Gorky’s words were powerf
ul and his passion undeniable. But they no longer seeped under Sergei’s callous skin the way they had in the past.
Shots rang out from behind the gathering, rupturing the air and scattering people. Government troops fired persistently on the demonstrators. Sergei took cover behind a barricade and started shooting. Voices cried out in pain as bullets penetrated skin and bodies dropped. Several soldiers went down, bolstering Sergei’s spirits.
The shooting lasted for hours, but Sergei never took a break. Every time a soldier fell, his energy grew. Every time a revolutionary went down, his resolve hardened. At around three o’clock in the afternoon, the government troops stopped abruptly and retreated out of sight. The revolutionaries kept their guns poised and their eyes on the street.
“Think they’ve had enough?” one older man asked Sergei.
“No,” he answered.
“They can’t surprise us from behind,” said another revolutionary. “We’ve got that area controlled.”
“I don’t like it,” added a man with a pointy nose. “It’s too quiet.”
“What if they return with more soldiers?” said the older man. “We’ve lost so many men, we’ll be in real trouble.”
A high-pitched noise whooshed overhead.
“Another shell!” somebody cried out. “Take cover.”
All of the revolutionaries, except Sergei, took off, vanishing into abandoned factories.
Sergei planted his feet and tightened the grip on his rifle.
A second later, the shell exploded near Alexandrovskii Station. Screams of agony split the air, screams that would be seared into Sergei’s memory for the rest of his life.
With his rifle still at the ready on his shoulder, Sergei backed up, toward the river.
“Stop right there,” came a stern command.
Sergei pivoted around and found himself face-to-face with a government soldier holding a pistol aimed at his chest.
“Drop your rifle,” ordered the soldier.
Sergei lowered himself to the ground and set the rifle down. When the soldier bent to grab the weapon, Sergei dashed off in the direction of the barricade on Krasnaya Presnia. Shots rang out. Ahead, soldiers marched toward him. Sergei veered down a small side street, only to find himself in the path of more troops. He turned around and ran directly into the waiting arms of two strong soldiers.
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