by Gale Sears
Natasha found it an odd scene. In the midst of a revolution with chaos and urgency all around, this band of sailors had stopped to have a picture taken.
“Now, your passes,” the burly sailor said, taking on a serious tone and demeanor. Just as he was examining Natasha’s pass, gunfire and the heavier boom of artillery shelling was heard in the distance. Open concern showed on the sailor’s face. “You realize you’re going into a dangerous area?” She nodded. “We’re doing our best to harm as few of our countrymen as possible, but there still may be a stray bullet or two.”
“Yes, comrade, thank you,” Natasha said.
Sergey stepped to her side. “I’ll watch out for her.”
The sailor frowned at him, and Sergey artfully turned the subject. “What have you heard? Has the palace been taken?”
The sailor nodded. “We think so, but we don’t know for sure. Rumors are going around that Kerensky snuck away from the city yesterday.”
“Yes, disguised as a Sister of Mercy,” another guard added, amusement evident on his face.
The first sailor ignored him. “We’ve also heard that many of the Junkers and members of the women’s battalion have come out and surrendered their weapons.”
He finished looking at the passes, rejecting the dark-haired man in the long cloak. The man started to protest, but thought better of it. He trudged away down the prospect, muttering to himself.
The guard turned to Sergey. “Go no further than the Red Arch—stay on the fringes. Do not attempt to go into the palace. No one in there will be interested in your flyers anyway.”
“Yes, comrade,” Sergey answered, already starting to move forward.
Natasha followed closely as did Dmitri and Nicholai. The sound of shelling had stopped, making the thump of their boots on the cobbles seem strangely loud.
“It is so quiet now,” Natasha said. “I have never heard it this quiet.”
“Well, until the gunfire and the shelling starts again,” Dmitri said in an attempt at humor.
No one smiled.
To Natasha it was a silence which reigned more terrible than all the thunders of the world. She felt as though the ground shifted beneath her. In her mind she saw the masses of peasants and workers pressing forward and the present rulers fading away like smoke from a dying fire. So much talk of revolution, so many years of persuasion and propaganda, of exile and struggle, and now the history of her beloved country was being rewritten in a night.
They were passed by a knot of armed workers and Red Guards running toward the square.
“Come on,” Sergey whispered. “I think they’re going to the palace. Let’s follow.”
“We said we wouldn’t go near there,” Nicholai Lvovitch said. A nearby shell blast sent the four friends running to the side of a building. “See,” he took up the argument, pressing his bulk as close to the plaster wall as possible. “Maybe we should go back.”
“You can if you’d like, but not me. I’m going forward,” Sergey answered. “Natasha, what do you want to do?”
Her heart was beating fast and her face felt hot even in the frigid temperatures of the night. “I want to be a part of it,” she said.
Sergey took her hand and pulled her close. “Dmitri?”
Dmitri pulled out his camera. “You think I’m going to miss this?”
“All right! All right!” Nicholai said fiercely. “Just don’t get us killed.”
They made it safely to the Red Arch where they came upon another contingent of soldiers, all of whose eyes were turned toward the palace. Light from their bonfire danced on their haggard faces, and each face carried an expression of astonishment.
“Comrades!” Sergey said, coming shoulder to shoulder with one of the smaller guards.
The guard snapped to attention. “Who are you?” He pointed his field pistol at them. “Are you counterrevolutionaries?”
All the guards snapped to attention. The officer of the watch came forward, his rifle at the ready.
“No! No, comrades,” Sergey assured them, taking out his pass. “We are from the Smolny. Commissar Trotsky sent us to document the glorious event.”
“Trotsky?” the soldier questioned, taking Sergey’s pass.
Dmitri Borisovitch pulled out his camera, nodding confidently. “That’s right. The insurrection must be documented.”
The officer checked each pass carefully then gave them a distrustful glare. “All right, go on then. You’ll probably be shot, but it’s up to you.” He handed them their papers and waved them off. “You’d better be quick or you might miss it.”
“Has the Provisional Government surrendered?” Natasha asked.
“Yes, just now. The commandant of the Junkers has surrendered the palace.” Dmitri and Nicholai shouted, but the officer merely gave them a measured look and continued. “The radio report said that some of the ministers were hiding but some were just sitting in a grand room around a big table—like they were having a meeting. They should be bringing them out anytime.”
“Come on!” Sergey yelled.
The four ran across the square, stooping low and bunching together in case of sniper fire. When they reached the Alexander Column, Natasha looked up into the windows of the palace. Light streamed out onto the square and she could see people moving about inside.
They continued on, clambering over barricades that had been hastily constructed from firewood. Sergey was leading the group, and as he maneuvered around one of the obstructions near the palace, he stumbled over a pile of rifles and fell.
Swearing, he picked himself up and kicked at one of the weapons.
“Hey! What are you doing there?” a guard asked.
“Nothing. Nothing.” Dmitri Borisovitch offered quickly as Sergey composed himself. “We’re here to document the insurrection, that’s all.” He showed the soldier his camera, but the man looked baffled.
Sergey Antonovich stepped forward. “Here, take a picture of these rifles,” he said with authority. He turned to the guard. “These were taken from the Junkers, I would imagine.”
The soldier grunted. “Just keep out of the way.”
Natasha was just catching her breath when five of the military school boys were escorted out of the palace and their guns thrown onto the mound of weapons. One of the aristocratic youth was weeping, but the others carried themselves with the dignity and aloofness of high position. As Natasha watched them being scolded by the Red Guards she felt sad. Russia had moved several centuries beyond these precious young men, and their manners and ability to speak French would be of little use in this brutish new world.
Nicholai Lvovitch spoke in a whisper. “Sergey Antonovich, my hearing’s not so good. Can you hear what the guards are saying to them?”
Sergey nodded. “They’re calling them traitors against the people. They’re telling them they have supported the wrong government and that now they have the chance to serve the people. If they will promise on their word of honor not to fight against the soviets, they are free to go.”
“They’re not being arrested?” Natasha asked.
“It seems not,” Sergey answered, a hint of amusement in his voice. “The magnanimous Bolsheviks. At least we’re not being naïve enough to let them keep their weapons.”
“Look! Look!” Dmitri called clandestinely to them. He had a better view as he stood on the other side of the pile of rifles, closer to the door. “They’re bringing out the ministers!” He tried to steady his camera as the men came through the small door single file, flanked on either side by soldiers.
Natasha recognized several of the group: Kishkin, his face drawn and pale; Konovalov, looking straight ahead; Tereshchenko, looking sharply around. He stared at the gathering crowd of soldiers, Red Guards, and members of the workers’ committees with cold fixity.
Sergey leaned toward her. �
�Tereshchenko is ridiculous,” he scoffed. “He does not work for the people. Look at his pompous manner and smart suit. He is groomed for the theater, but he’s headed for the Peter and Paul Fortress.”
Natasha had to agree that none of the ministers seemed much like representatives of the people.
Rutenberg came last, looking sullenly at the ground. He glanced up and saw Dmitri taking pictures. “Are you with the newspapers?” he croaked. “Well, you tell the people that democracy is to blame. She lured us into government and set a mighty burden on our shoulders, and at the moment of danger she left us without support.”
“Not true, old man!” someone shouted. “You had a choice!”
The pent up anger and spite against the conquered unleashed from the crowd in waves of recrimination.
“You had a choice!”
“You betrayed the people!”
“Where is our land?”
“Death to them!”
“Shoot them!”
Several of the soldiers in the crowd leaned past the guards and attempted to strike the ministers.
Antonov, the military commander, stepped forward, raising his arms and shouting. “Comrades! Comrades! Do not stain the proletarian victory. We have conquered a nation with very little bloodshed and we will not take judgment into our hands. These men will be taken to the fortress and there imprisoned until they can answer for their crimes against the people.”
“And Kerensky? Where is Kerensky?” Sergey shouted.
Antonov addressed his answer to the crowd. “Like a coward he has fled.” The people shouted their outrage and Antonov held up his arms again to quiet them. “But . . . but he will be found and punished!”
The people shouted again, this time approving the declaration.
Dmitri took pictures.
“Comrades, we will walk these criminals through the Milliony and across the Troitsky Bridge to the dungeons of the Peter and Paul Fortress,” Antonov announced. “You are welcome to follow, but if you interfere in any way with my command, I will deal with you harshly.” He ordered the troops forward and the vanquished ministers were herded east out of the square. A large contingent of people followed, calling out curses and mocking the ousted officials, but restraining themselves from force.
“Let’s go with them!” Dmitri said, beginning to move after the disappearing group. “Come on!”
“Hey! You there!” someone called. “You with the camera.”
Dmitri stopped.
The foursome turned to see an important-looking Bolshevik officer coming from the palace.
“Oh, this doesn’t look good,” Dmitri said.
Nicholai Lvovitch shuffled from one foot to the other. “Should we run?”
“With fifty guards ready to shoot us?” Sergey said. “I don’t think so.”
The officer rushed up to them. “Are you Bolsheviks? Are you with the newspapers?” he demanded.
“Ah . . . well . . .” Dmitri stammered.
“Yes, we’re with Pravda,” Sergey lied, stepping forward. “We have instructions from Commissar Trotsky to document.”
The officer’s face lit up. “Ah, good. Good. Come with me.”
The friends exchanged doubtful looks, but followed the officer, entering the palace through the same door the ministers had exited only a few minutes before. They came into a great vaulted room from which issued a maze of corridors and staircases.
“This way,” the officer said. He led them down a hallway lined with packing boxes and into a large room. Here too were packing boxes—hundreds of packing boxes nearly filling the room, but these had been smashed open, the contents strewn about the floor.
Natasha gaped at the opulence and quantity of the goods: damask curtains, tapestries, clocks, linens, glassware, porcelains, small exquisite portraits in gold-leaf frames, silk dresses, and gilt-edged tables. Did all of this belong to one family? She knew of course that it did, but it was still hard for her mind to accept.
Two guards were working to place the goods back into their boxes, and the officer went to stand beside them. “Here, take a picture of this,” he ordered Dmitri. “Some of the peasant soldiers wanted to loot the place, but we said no. No! This is the property of the people. Don’t steal from the people.”
Dmitri collected his wits and took several pictures.
The officer nodded. “Good, now come with me.”
A few minutes later they emerged from a side door to face the grand staircase of the palace. Natasha’s breath caught in her chest and unexpected tears sprang into her eyes. She heard Sergey swear, and Nicholai Lvovitch kept muttering, “Impossible . . . this is impossible.”
The white marble staircase swept up like two circling arms and was surrounded by walls festooned with carved garlands, flowers, and swirls. Most of these ornamentations were covered in gold. Thirty-foot-tall malachite pillars topped in gold cornices held up the ornate arched ceiling, while marble statues kept watch over the hidden excess.
Natasha blinked and saw Dmitri slowly raise his camera. Sergey Antonovich came to stand beside her. “Now you know why we struggle,” he said, his voice cold and determined. “Now you know why we fight.”
Notes
1. Marie Alexandrovna Spirodonova (1889–1941): Member of the Left Socialist Revolutionist party. She was a revered leader of the revolution.
2. Kronstadt Island sits outside the mouth of the Neva River in the Gulf of Finland. It served as the main naval base for the Kronstadt fleet. The Kronstadt sailors were sympathetic with the Bolshevik agenda, and on the night of October 25, 1917, the naval cruiser Aurora sailed up the Neva River, and at a signal from the Naryshkin bastion, fired the cannon salvoes that started the attack on the Winter Palace.
3. The rumor that Kerensky escaped Petrograd disguised as a Sister of Mercy was exactly that, a widespread rumor.
Chapter Fourteen
Petrograd
October 26, 1917
Natasha slumped on a brocaded sofa in one of the minister’s private offices. She watched through half-lidded eyes as two soldiers ripped the elaborate Spanish leather upholstery from the chairs.
“I . . . I thought,” she said without energy, “that this was the people’s property and not to be taken.”
The soldiers stopped for a moment and looked at her good-naturedly. “That’s true, comrade, but these chairs belonged to the Provisional Government and we need boots.”
“Of course.” She nodded and closed her eyes. Her body was tired from lack of sleep, her mind was spinning from days of unending work, and her emotions were numb with all she’d seen in the palace over the past few hours—room after room of such excess and opulence that she could no longer take it in.
Had it truly only been hours ago that they’d stood next to the Bolshevik lieutenant in the grand staircase foyer? She remembered people being ushered out through the one unlocked door. A self-appointed committee had set up a table over which guards stood with drawn revolvers. A young soldier sat at the table with pen and paper to note confiscated items. As the armed workers and soldiers passed by, they were searched, and the lieutenant called out a litany.
“Comrades, this is the people’s palace. This is our palace. Do not steal from the people . . . do not disgrace the people.”
The officer had Dmitri take several pictures to document that the Bolsheviks were not a lawless band of robbers. Natasha found it sad what the soldiers had taken: the broken handle of a Chinese sword, a coat hanger, a wax candle, cakes of soap, a blanket. The thieves had laid out the bits and scraps on the table, their faces red with shame. These simple people had walked through halls of wealth beyond their imagining and thought only to take insignificant souvenirs.
Yet, hadn’t she felt the same as she’d gazed on paintings and sculptures of the masters, silver clocks, gold candle
sticks, and intricate marble floors that glistened under crystal chandeliers? Hadn’t her mind thought only of picking up a little piece of bric-a-brac to take out and look at later on—something small and real to convince herself she’d actually been inside the great palace of the tsars and been witness to its glory?
What will Agnes say when I tell her I actually walked the same hallways where the grand duchesses walked? A cool breeze blew across her face. Someone must have opened a window.
“Natasha Ivanovna.”
Is someone holding my hand?
“Natasha Ivanovna.”
She opened her eyes.
“I leave you to rest for two minutes and you fall soundly asleep.”
She sat up and tried to compose herself.
Sergey Antonovich chuckled. “Are you awake?” She nodded. “The lieutenant wants to show us one last place before we leave.”
She took a deep breath and stood. The soldiers, just finishing their work stripping the leather chairs, smiled at her. “We hope we didn’t disturb your rest, comrade,” one of them said.
She gave him a brief smile. “No. No, not at all.”
“Bring that leather, any clothing, and all papers to the sorting area,” the lieutenant ordered the soldiers. “The commissars wish to see everything. Chairman Lenin especially wants to see the papers of the Provisional Government. Take a picture of this, comrade.”
Dmitri obeyed.
The lieutenant led the four friends down several hallways to a large room of malachite and gold with crimson brocade hangings. There was a long table surrounded by chairs, but little else in the way of furniture.
“This is where we found most of the ministers,” he said. “They were sitting here like regal jackasses still trying to figure out how to save their pitiful government.”
The four moved to the table.
“It’s just as they left it,” Dmitri said. He tried to take a picture in the bad light and swore. “These will never come out.”
Natasha put her hand on the table. “I will remember and write it down, Dmitri Borisovitch.” She ran her fingers over the inkwells, the pens, and the papers. The papers were covered with scribbled writing: the beginnings of plans of action, rough drafts of proclamations, definitions of manifestoes. Sergey came to her side as she picked up one of the pages. “Most of the thoughts are scratched out,” she said.