by Gale Sears
“Of course,” he answered. “They knew their cause was futile.”
She brushed aside his cold assessment. “Look, someone has covered his sheet with absentminded geometrical designs.”
Sergey said something derisive, but looking at the paper in her hand made her sad—sad to think of the frustration, fear, and despondency mingling in the room during those last hours.
“Here’s one with Konovalov’s name on it,” Sergey said, grabbing up another paper. He read it out, his voice mocking and disdainful. “‘The Provisional Government appeals to all classes to support the Provisional Government.’”
Just then a loud crash occurred in the hallway and everyone rushed out to investigate. A young woman in army attire and shaven head was running down the corridor. A soldier ran after her, aiming his revolver at her back. “Stop! Stop, comrade!” he shouted. “Please don’t make me shoot you.”
The lieutenant reacted immediately. “Put your weapon down!” he shouted. “Comrade, stop!” he ordered the girl.
She stopped, turning abruptly to meet the new voice.
The lieutenant held out his hand to her and she stumbled down the long hallway back to him. She was a large, sturdy girl, but as she neared, Natasha could see tears swimming in the girl’s vivid green eyes. From behind them came three more soldiers guarding a group of girls. The girls were also crying and Natasha felt a keen ache of compassion for the terror they must be feeling.
The lieutenant brought the first girl back to the group and several of her friends patted her face or rubbed her arm. The officer confronted the soldier with the gun. “What happened here?” he asked, his voice accusatory and harsh.
“We . . . we found . . .” the soldier stammered. He looked at his fellows and set his jaw against emotion. “Sir, we found eight members of the women’s battalion hiding in a back closet. We were bringing them out as we have all the others, when this one”—he nodded his head toward the green-eyed soldier—“started crying loudly that she wanted to die. She said she had disgraced her family and could never go home.”
The girls held hands and wept.
The soldier flinched at the sight, but went on. “She said she was going to throw herself out a window. Then she knocked over a large vase and ran.”
The lieutenant stood silently, looking at the shiny parquet floor. Finally he took a deep breath and looked up into the faces of the girls. He moved to them, catching the eye of the girl who ran. “How old are you?” he asked gently.
“Nineteen.”
“Ah, nineteen. A little younger than my own daughter. Well, here is the truth, comrade: you have not disgraced anyone. You were tricked by the Provisional Government into thinking you were serving Russia. Is that right?” All the girls nodded. “Yes. I understand. Many people believed—and still believe—that the Provisional Government served Russia, but tonight the people of Russia have spoken. And are you not the people of Russia?” The girls’ faces were full of hope and pride as they nodded again. “Yes, of course, you are. And we would not think of harming our own people. We are sending all the women of the women’s battalion back to your camp in Levashovo.”
Natasha noted the look of unbelief mirrored on the face of each girl.
“Not to prison?” the green-eyed girl asked.
The lieutenant looked incredulous. “Prison? No, of course not. We would not think of it!” He spoke to them as a kind father. “Now, here is what I want you to do. I want you to return to your towns and villages, grow back your beautiful hair, and have families.” The girls blushed. “Yes, families. Work hard for the Soviets and teach your children to do the same. Can you do that for me, comrades?”
They all nodded, smiling and crying.
Natasha saw Dmitri sneak a picture.
“Good,” the officer said, taking the hand of the one girl. “And no more thoughts of throwing yourself out of windows. You are important to the country. You must live and work and share.”
From each according to their ability. To each according to their need, Natasha thought.
“Yes, comrade,” the girl answered. “I am a hard worker.”
“Good.” The lieutenant turned to the guards. “Walk them to the truck, please.” His tone was mannered and even, evaporating the last modicum of the girls’ trepidation.
The soldiers moved off and Natasha noted relief on their faces; probably because they would no longer be plagued with the young girls’ caterwauling.
Nicholai Lvovitch followed them for a few paces. “I wonder where that green-eyed girl is from?”
His companions laughed and the lieutenant slapped Nicholai on the back. “I could find out, if you’d like.”
Nicholai’s ruddy face turned even redder. “No, no. I was just wondering.”
“Come then,” the Bolshevik officer said, turning the focus away from the embarrassed man. “It is time to get you back to Trotsky with your documentation.”
“Yes, comrade, thank you,” Sergey said. “We will be sure he knows what a splendid job everyone has done—especially you.”
Minutes later the friends were standing outside on the palace square. It was cold and quiet and dark. The cobbles underfoot were littered with broken stucco. Natasha looked up and saw that a cornice of the palace had been hit by artillery and shattered. It seemed to be the only damage that she could see, but perhaps the morning light would reveal more.
“I want to go home,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud.
Sergey took her arm. “I will walk you, Natasha Ivanovna. You must be exhausted.”
She nodded. “Good night, Dmitri Borisovitch. Nicholai Lvovitch. I will see you some other time.”
“What a wonder, hey?” Nicholai said, kicking at one of the log piles. “A whole government changing over just like that.”
“Good thing I brought my camera,” Dmitri said, laughing.
As the two men moved off toward Nevsky Prospect, Natasha and Sergey walked out of the square toward St. Isaac’s Cathedral. She thought of the mammoth empty church with its riches and splendor. Is God hiding behind the icons and the gold angels? And now that the Soviets are in charge, will they dismiss God as a fairy tale—a fairy tale that has no place in their movement toward utopian brotherhood? And will the European governments follow Russia in the vision for worldwide Socialism? And what of men’s hearts . . . men’s hearts? She groaned and rubbed her temples.
“What’s wrong?” Sergey asked. “Are you ill?”
“No. It’s just that so many thoughts are tumbling around inside my head.”
“That is because you need to sleep. Stay here and I’ll find us a cab.”
“You can’t afford that.”
“Perhaps the driver is a Bolshevik and will give us a free ride in celebration of the victory.”
Natasha stood on the sidewalk, trying to keep warm and trying to calm her mind, but she kept seeing Konovalov’s scribbled note—his desperate cry for support. Only in her exhausted mind, the name at the top of the page was V. I. Lenin and the paper read, “The Soviet Government appeals to all classes to support the Soviet Government.”
Notes
1. Many of the images concerning the storming of the Winter Palace are taken from the books Ten Days That Shook the World by John Reed and Six Red Months in Russia by Louise Bryant. As American reporters sympathetic to Bolshevik ideals they were given access to the events of the revolution, thus serving as eyewitnesses to history.
2. Little damage was done to the Winter Palace during its takeover by the Bolsheviks. Hundreds of bullet holes and a few broken cornices were reported, but overall the Palace was miraculously unscathed.
3. St. Isaac’s, one of the great Russian Orthodox cathedrals, was turned into a museum of religion and atheism during Communist rule.
4. Two to three hundred female soldiers
from the Women’s Death Battalion made an unsuccessful attempt to stand against the Bolsheviks during the storming of the Winter Palace.
Chapter Fifteen
Petrograd
November 18, 1917
At the horizon a ginger sun was sinking, a corona of gold fanning out in a wide arc around the half circle. The rest of the cloudless sky was palest blue, almost white, and Natasha reached out to brush her hand across the sun’s brilliant surface before it slid behind the hill. She walked through the knee-high grass without thought or care of destination. It felt good just to move through the acres of green, smell the pungent smell of dirt, and hear the wind. This kind of stillness and peace had eluded her for a long time.
She caught movement at the corner of her sight and turned to glower at whatever or whoever was intruding on her solitude. She saw nothing but miles of grass. Now movement flickered on the other side of her vision. This time when she turned, she saw a white image in the distance. She began walking to it, but as she approached, the image retreated. After several attempts to reach the phantom item, she gave up and went back to her picnic.
Mother had packed meat pies, cheese, pears, figs, and loganberry tarts, and as Natasha brought the foodstuffs from the basket there was more to take out. The quilt upon which she sat expanded and was soon covered with more food than she’d seen in months. She reached into the basket to make sure it was empty, and her fingers felt a solid metal object. She brought it out and discovered that her mother had included a simple silver cross with the picnic lunch.
Natasha drew back her arm and threw the cross far out into the field of grass. By this time she was very hungry. She grabbed a wedge of cheese, but when she went to put it into her mouth, she found it was another silver cross—this one with scrolled edges. She threw the second cross out into the tall grass as she had the first. Now her hunger was terrible and she secured a plump, juicy fig, knowing that if she didn’t eat soon, she would die. But, when she bit into the fruit, instead of the soft meat of the fig, her teeth met hard silver.
She held the third cross in front of her, blinking at the splendor of the piece: pearls and emeralds encrusted the surface and the etching on the metal was exquisite. She brought the cross closer to her face so she could make out the small words hidden within the loops and swirls of the etching. She read, “The light which shineth in darkness.” She stood and threw the cross with great force. It disappeared into the darkening sky.
Her body trembled from lack of food and she turned quickly to her feast, but the dark was so complete that she could not find the place where she had spread out the quilt. She fell onto her hands and knees, crawling frantically in search of the soft fabric, but her fingers found only rocks and stickers. She cried out in fear and frustration. Finally she collapsed, weeping, onto the ground. The peacefulness she’d felt earlier was swallowed up in a night without stars.
She pushed herself onto her knees and turned toward the east. Sunrise gilded the top of the hill and the black eastward sky began to lighten. She saw the white image in the distance again. She stood and walked toward it. This time it did not retreat, but moved to her. As it neared, she recognized it as the orphan girl’s magical cow, but instead of the orphan girl holding the lead rope, it was a formidable-looking peasant in ancient costume. He held a sword and there was a crown on his head, yet Natasha felt neither fear nor intimidation.
The man smiled at her. “What is it you want?”
“Wisdom.”
“More than food?”
“Yes.” As she watched, the sword and the crown disappeared. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I was once a prince of this land. I was a pagan and I fought many wars and built up a great kingdom, but my greatest achievement was not of conquering cities or accumulating wealth.”
“What was it?”
“I brought the word of God to my people.” He opened his hand and a small silver cross glittered in the first rays of the morning sun.
“I know you. You are Prince Vladimir of Kiev.” She patted the cow’s head. “But why do you have the orphan girl’s cow?”
“You were the one who sent for it,” he said simply. “You must have need of it.”
She heard voices, strident and low, and she turned, looking for the source of the argument, but the world was gliding again from light into dark.
Natasha blinked several times, knowing that she was waking from a dream. A gray light filled her room and she heard the voices of her mother and father. Her bedroom door was ajar and she could hear snatches of a heated conversation coming from the kitchen. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and crept out to the top of the stairs. She sat in the shadows halfway down the stairway and focused her attention on the words. Her father’s voice came first.
“You will not try to influence her with your superstitions and symbols, Svetlana. They are making her agitated. She hardly gets any sleep as it is with her work at the Smolny, and for the past three nights I’ve heard her moaning and talking in her sleep. The superstitions and stories must stop.”
Her mother’s voice came softly, but with uncharacteristic firmness. That was odd. Natasha had never heard her mother use such an assured voice when speaking to her father. “You think her troubled sleep is from simple fairy tales?”
“You are discussing much more than fairy tales. You are filling her head with the nonsense of Christianity. Telling her the stories of Vladimir and Anna.”
“I am only answering her questions. Does she not have the right to ask questions?”
Her father grunted. “Of course. I have always encouraged her to ask questions.”
“But she must only ask certain questions about certain things?”
Her father’s voice took on a gruff tone. “When I married you, Svetlana, I told you that you could keep to your archaic country faith, but if we had children, you were not to try to indoctrinate them.”
Her mother’s voice lost some of its confidence. “I have kept that promise, Ivan Alexseyevitch, but she is asking me. What can I do? Do you want me to lie and tell her I don’t want to share my beliefs with her?”
“Just tell her it’s not important.”
Natasha felt a shiver run through her body, and she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. It was several moments before her mother answered.
“I can’t do that.”
“You will do that. Religion will ruin her, just as it’s ruined everything throughout history. Your bible is filled with wars, and genocide, and acts of vengeance. And religious history is replete with atrocities enacted in God’s name.”
Her mother’s voice was strong again. “You see only what you wish to see. My sister and I were taught kindness, compassion, and service by the monks in our little village church. That is what the church teaches. People with strong faith in God have always tried to live simple lives of kindness. Yes, there have been bad things done in the name of religion and sometimes the church loses its way, but . . .”
Natasha sat forward, straining to hear each word.
“ . . . the teachings of Jesus are always about goodness and righteousness.”
Her father’s voice was mocking. “Like the empty ritual of worshiping icons and bowing before statues? Or the church’s goodness at amassing fortunes and then turning its back as the ignorant parishioners starve?”
“And you think that the philosophies of men and the governments of men do a better job? What has been that record in history?”
Natasha had never heard her mother speak so many words, or reason so ably. Had she been forced over the years to keep quiet in deference to her husband’s standing and intellect?
“Svetlana, this conversation is over. Natasha is important to the Bolshevik cause. She has work to do, and that work will make a difference to people. People will finally be released from the chains of servitude
and myth and will come together in a glorious common purpose.”
Her mother said nothing.
Her father’s voice was full of authority. “When she wakes up, I want you to tell her that you will no longer share your silly country fairy tales with her, and you will especially not talk to her about religion.”
“No.”
“No?”
Her mother’s voice trembled with emotion, but the words were sure. “If you want to end our talks, you must tell her yourself. You must be the one to tell her not to ask me any more questions.”
Natasha heard the scrape of the kitchen chair and assumed her father had stood.
“By the devil, woman, I will!”
Natasha stood to flee to her bedroom, but her mother’s next words stopped her short.
“And you’d better tell her to stop talking to the Lindlof family about faith, because I think they’ve been sharing their ideas about God with her.”
Natasha heard her father’s footsteps moving out of the kitchen and she ran quickly and quietly back into her room. She threw her shawl over the chair and slipped into bed. The sheets were cold and she struggled to relax and make it seem as though she was just waking.
Her father shoved open her bedroom door. “Natasha,” he said, none too gently.
Her body jerked and she sat up. “What?”
Her father calmed his voice. “I’m . . . I’m sorry to wake you, but I need to make a request.”
“A request?”
“Yes. I want you to stop asking your mother—or anyone else—questions about religion.”
“How did you . . . ?”
“There isn’t much I don’t know, Natasha.” He looked at her sternly. “So, hear me. Leave the topic of religion alone.”
She faked a yawn and made her voice drowsy and disinterested. “Why?”