by Evelyn Weiss
He and I go back through the door onto the landing. A corridor leads along this upper floor, but it goes in the opposite direction from the hospital wing. We go back down the stairs, out of the glare of the chandeliers into the gloom of the ground-floor corridor. As we reach the bottom, I see a shaft of moonlight illuminating a doorway that I didn’t notice before.
“Is there a way through there?”
We take two steps towards the doorway. Then I see, under its arched frame, a man’s face, lit by the moon.
“Look, Yuri! Is that another government minister standing there?”
Yuri answers briefly. “I don’t know if he has become a minister or not. But, I do know him.” He calls out.
“General Aristarkhov! It’s me, Captain Sirko!”
I recognise the strong, white-haired figure who steps silently out from the shadows. Yuri explains quickly to him.
“General – the Red Guards are trying to enter the building. I think their intention is to depose the Provisional Government, so that Lenin’s Bolsheviks can take control of Russia. The only defenders of the Winter Palace appear to be a group of young cadets and a women’s battalion.”
“So do you recommend talking to the Red Guards, Captain Sirko, like you did back in February with the demonstrators on the Nevsky Prospect? Or do you think that the Winter Palace can be defended against an armed attack?”
“No; the attackers are too many, and they are well-equipped. The Provisional Government is finished.”
Aristarkhov nods sagely, but Yuri carries on.
“The palace also houses a hospital, sir. The patients and staff need to be protected from violence. So I think that representatives of each side should meet and discuss what is to be done, for the safety of all. We must speak to the doctors in charge of the hospital wing, and agree who should go out to parley with the attackers. Would you, sir, be happy to be one of our representatives?”
Aristarkhov looks sharply at Yuri, who continues to explain.
“So our priority, General, is to get back to the wards. Does this doorway lead to the hospital wing?”
“No, Captain. It leads directly outside, onto the Palace Embankment. The view from that doorway would alarm you: there are hundreds of Red Guards and other Bolshevik supporters all along the Embankment, just outside the palace walls.”
“So we are surrounded.”
“More than that. Across the river, the Peter and Paul Fortress is flying a new red flag to declare that all soldiers of the St Petersburg Garrison support Lenin. And the battle cruiser Aurora, manned by Bolshevik sailors, has sailed up the Neva and is anchored near the Embankment. All its heavy guns are trained on the Winter Palace. It could demolish this place with a few shots.”
Yuri’s face is set: he knows the situation is hopeless. The general, too, is stern-faced; he shakes his head grimly, and turns towards the doorway. Yuri grips his arm.
“Don’t go out there, sir! The Red Guards will get you.”
Only now, as the moonlight catches it, do I notice Aristarkhov’s uniform. He wears the plain outfit of an ordinary soldier, distinguished only by a crimson arm-band. Scrawled on it are the words “Comrade Aristarkhov.”
The general smiles. “The Red Guards won’t get me, Captain Sirko. They got me months ago.”
13 The wrong sort of communist
Behind Aristarkhov I now seen others; Red Guards with rifles and fixed bayonets. He raises an arm to halt them, then gives his orders.
“Comrades, the reports I’ve received say that the ministers of the Provisional Government are meeting in the Malachite Room. Go up that staircase and through the gold door: arrest them all. Avoid violence if you can, but make sure you get every single one of them. I will follow you with Captain Sirko and this nurse.”
The troop of men stamp noisily up the stairs. Aristarkhov, meanwhile, points Sirko and me to the stairs too. Oddly, he even makes a little courteous bow to me. “After you, Miss.” I start to climb. Behind me, I hear the general speaking to Yuri.
“You’re a good officer, and I need loyal men. Why don’t you join us? The Bolsheviks are the future of Russia, Sirko.”
“I have no political views, General.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“I’m sorry, General.” Sirko runs his uninjured arm down the plain serge of his jacket. “I am a Cossack cavalry officer, and my people are the Astrakhan Cossack Host. They are a traditional people. Like them, I am perhaps not very forward-thinking.”
“But if you join us now, you might find yourself in the inner circle of the party.”
“I’m not the sort of man who joins one side, just because it appears to be winning. But I can promise you this, General: I will keep an open mind. If one day I come to believe that Bolshevism is truly the best way forward for Russia, then at that point I will ask to become a member of the party.”
“Have it your own way. But by taking more time to make up your mind, you are throwing away an opportunity right now. You may not have such a chance again. Above all, Captain Sirko, remember that it is not wise to be known as an opponent of the Bolsheviks.”
We reach the top of the stairs. Round a corner comes another group of Red Guards who I’ve not seen before. Their leader looks striking: his prominent chin and cheekbones are framed by a sweep of thick hair covering his ears. He has the air of an actor or an artist, not a soldier. He looks at Aristarkhov and asks a question.
“Have you carried out my orders?”
“I have, Comrade Antonov. Everything is in hand. My men are arresting the members of the Provisional Government right now.”
“Good. Send those bourgeois parasites down to me: I will be in the Throne Room. It’s marked as St George’s Hall on our map of the palace.”
“What’s the situation in the rest of the Winter Palace?”
“Better than you and I could ever have hoped, Aristarkhov. The Provisional Government relied on women and children protecting them! We found a group of cadets, young boys barely out of school. They had been in the wine cellar, and were much the worse for wear. And there was a women’s battalion, too. Both groups surrendered peaceably, and we’ve taken all their weapons.”
“What shall we do with them?”
“I’ve already dealt with them. None of them had any loyalty to the Provisional Government: they all said they were only here because they were following orders. I told them they were free to go, and they’ve already left the palace. They are going to catch a train this morning to return to their barracks near Vyborg. All they want is to get out of St Petersburg, and have no involvement in this business.”
“So our opponents have melted away?”
“Exactly. There is no other opposition to the Bolshevik Revolution anywhere in the Winter Palace, or across the city. And whoever controls St Petersburg controls all of Russia.”
Aristarkhov nods in satisfaction, and salutes. The man and his group of guards descend the stairs. In front of us, the gold door stands wide open. Inside the room, Aristarkhov’s men, pointing glinting bayonets, surround the members of the Provisional Government. The guards are grim-faced; the ministers are silent with dismay. No-one moves or speaks. Under the bright light of the chandeliers, the scene looks like a waxwork tableau.
Aristarkhov shouts through the door. “Take the Provisional Government ministers to Comrade Antonov. He’s in St George’s Hall, which is marked on the plan you have.” He looks at one of his men. “Except for you – standing there! You stay in this corridor, and guard Captain Sirko. Keep him here, until I call for you.”
The man steps towards Yuri. Meanwhile, Aristarkhov calls to another of the guards: a short, thickset man with small eyes, his face a mass of black stubble.
“Now – Comrade Lebedev. I need your help.”
“Of course, sir!” The man salutes like a machine.
“I need you to stay with me, Lebedev, and help me conduct the interrogation of this nurse, who has strayed over here from the Winter Palace hospital wing
. We can use the Malachite Room for our interview.”
Lebedev sneers nastily at me. But the general explains further.
“She is not under arrest, Lebedev. We simply need an amicable discussion with her. And she is a foreign national, from the United States. So she must be treated with respect. But I suspect she has some important information, which she would be wise to share with us.”
Aristarkhov’s troop, waving their bayonets with more bravado than skill, push the ministers of the Provisional Government towards the door. We wait on the landing for them all to pass. My attention is drawn along the landing, to a corridor lined with Roman pillars. The scene is brightly lit by the chandeliers: under them, I see a gang of ill-dressed men, and they are all arguing.
“Put that back, Comrade!”
“I found it; why can’t I take it away?” One of the men is carrying a large bronze clock on his shoulder.
The reply is an angry shout. “You idiot! Don’t you understand that we have stormed the Winter Palace on behalf of the people? All property in here belongs to the workers of Russia! Put the clock down, now! And you – you there, too! Put that down!”
I notice that others in the group, too, are carrying a bizarre assortment of objects; statuettes, vases, paintings and rolled-up rugs. They look like a motley group of removal men. Despite the gun pointing at his chest, I notice that Yuri can’t resist smiling to himself at the chaotic scene.
Aristarkhov and Lebedev usher me into the Provisional Government’s former meeting-chamber. This, I presume, is the Malachite Room. Only on this second visit to the room can I take in the opulence around me. It’s an extraordinary place, filled with over-vivid colours like some tropical coral cave. Everything that isn’t covered with gold is made of the bright green mineral; the pillars, the fireplace, the enormous urns and statues which adorn the room. The room is huge, but the excessive finery makes it claustrophobic. I look around, as Aristarkhov and Lebedev, standing behind me, whisper together. I have no idea what Aristarkhov wants with me, or why he has involved this gruff, grim-faced guard in my interview. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach, but I try to look calm.
We sit around the table that had been occupied by the Provisional Government ministers. Their papers are still scattered across its shiny green surface. Lebedev is opposite me; Aristarkhov sits at the far end of the table, appearing almost detached from us. His blue eyes gaze idly around the room. But I can tell that he’s listening intently.
Under sullen brows, Lebedev’s eyes are like little beads, staring at me. “What is your name?”
“Agnes Frocester, American citizen.”
“I only needed your name. I already know your nationality. Just answer the questions that are asked. Now – do you work here at the Winter Palace hospital?”
“Ah – yes.” I can’t resist a slight smile, looking down at my nursing uniform. Lebedev’s face is humorless, as he considers for a moment. Then his little eyes stare closely at me.
“Tell me, Nurse Frocester, do you know this man?”
As if from nowhere, he produces a brown manilla file and holds it in front of my face. It looks just like the files I saw over a year ago, in Mr Bukin’s office. There’s a photograph pinned to it, and under the photograph is a name: Dr Māris Jansons.
“Yes. I know him. We both work here at the hospital. And I can assure you: Dr Jansons has no interest in politics. His only concern is the welfare of his patients.”
Lebedev looks unimpressed. “Did you and Dr Jansons have a discussion concerning Captain Yuri Sirko?”
“No.”
Lebedev pauses. I notice the reflection of his grizzled face, in the polished surface of the table. His words come slowly, like a measured threat.
“Lying to us is not intelligent, Nurse Frocester. We already have statements from a patient and a hospital orderly. They say that you and Dr Jansons were having a discussion about Captain Sirko, four days ago. Dr Jansons visited your ward, and he told you that Captain Sirko was here at the Winter Palace.”
“Dr Jansons did tell me that, yes. But it was hardly a ‘discussion’.” He just mentioned it in passing.”
Lebedev is touching his face, rubbing the coarse stubble as if he’s nervous. But his expression remains impassive as he asks his next question.
“Now, Nurse Frocester, this is important. Are you an associate of members of the Provisional Government? Is that why you and Captain Sirko were seen, a few minutes ago, coming down the staircase from this very room, where the Government ministers were meeting?”
“No. I don’t know a single one of them.”
“Then how do you explain this?” He throws a photograph down onto the table. The picture shows the steps of the Winter Palace. A group of soldiers and the members of the Provisional Government are walking up the steps, and I’m talking to one of the soldiers.
“That was the day the Provisional Government ministers were setting up their offices here. Before that, the Winter Palace was just a hospital. Then suddenly, all these government people appeared. So I asked that soldier what was going on.”
Lebedev shrugs cynically, but Aristarkhov leans across the table towards him and speaks quietly. “That’s enough questions on that subject.” He passes Lebedev one of the pieces of paper left on the table by the government ministers. I see that the general has scribbled something on the back of the paper.
Lebedev reads what Aristarkhov has written. Then he looks at me and asks another question.
“Have you ever been to Ivangorod? – to a palace called Tri Tsarevny?”
I’m too taken aback to think: I just blurt out. “Yes.”
Lebedev glances at the paper in from of him, like an actor using a script. “Have you ever met a Swedish woman called Svea Håk-ansson?” He stumbles over the name: it must be the first time he’s ever come across it.
I answer truthfully. “No.”
Aristarkhov has been leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if bored. But now, his face is suddenly alert, and he touches Lebedev’s elbow.
“Comrade Lebedev – our other interviewee has arrived.”
The gold door opens wide. Two soldiers are struggling to push a woman into the room. She’s protesting angrily.
“What the heck are you doing? I’m going to complain to the St Petersburg Soviet. This is one goddamned big mistake.”
I’m completely taken aback. The woman’s black hair is tousled and wild, as if she’s been dragged out of bed. Her face is white with fury, and her eyes flash daggers at Lebedev. It’s Emily Neale.
Lebedev grunts at her. “Sit down next to the nurse. We need a discussion with you. You are not under arrest, but there are good reasons for you being here.”
“I should damned well hope so.”
“I am Comrade Lebedev: this is Comrade Aristarkhov. You’ve been brought here to tell us the answers to a few simple questions.”
“In the middle of the night? Are your questions that urgent?”
He ignores her protests. “We need to establish some basic facts. We know that you are Miss Emily Neale. And don’t start telling me how you’re an American citizen. Just tell me a little background about yourself, please.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Just basic information about you.”
“I was born in New Orleans, Louisiana. I studied at Bryn Mawr –”
“What is that?”
“A ladies’ college in Pennsylvania. I gained a doctorate there –”
“You are a doctor?”
“No. I did high-level academic study. If you must know, I studied Russian writers. Tolstoy, Gorky, Dostoyevsky…”
“I get the idea, Miss Neale. What did you do then?”
“I became a travelling writer, and a journalist, but I ended up doing most of my writing for a trade union organisation, called Industrial Workers of the World. I wrote articles and pamphlets.”
Aristarkhov catches Emily’s eye, and he nods at her in recognition.
> “I know who you mean, Miss Neale. The Industrial Workers of the World are more familiarly known as the ‘Wobblies’.”
“Yes. Anyway, then I came to Russia. I was invited, by the St Petersburg Soviet.”
Lebedev’s eyes are like glistening pin heads, staring at Emily. He takes up the questioning again.
“Now this is important, Miss Neale. Exactly when did you enter Russia?”
“Early 1916 – March, or maybe the beginning of April. You can check the precise date in my passport, which your friends no doubt found when they arrested me and searched my flat.”
“As I explained, Miss Neale, you are not under arrest.” Lebedev turns his gaze to me. “Now you, Nurse Frocester – when did you enter Russia?”
“August nineteenth, 1916.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Well, well. One or both of you is lying to us.” Then he looks pointedly at me.
“Do you know this woman sitting here, this woman who calls herself Emily Neale? And do you know Nikolay Chkheidze, former Chairman of the St Petersburg Soviet?”
“I’ve met both of them only once.”
“Nonsense. You two women are admirers of Chkheidze, members of his little coterie. The three of you were seen at the Finland Station, discussing politics together!”
Emily stares back at Lebedev boldly. But he is spitting words at both of us. “You know, don’t you, that Chkheidze, a lily-livered liberal and compromiser, is no longer Chair of the St Petersburg Soviet? Comrade Lenin sent him away, back to Georgia, and has replaced him with a more politically correct Chairman – Leon Trotsky.”
Emily looks at Lebedev in surprise.
“I met Leon Trotsky years ago, in New York. He told me he was a close friend of Chkheidze. But clearly, Mr Trotsky hasn’t got much loyalty to his friends.”
“Comrade Trotsky, like Lenin, has only one loyalty – to the revolution. But what are your loyalties, Miss Neale?”
Emily can’t contain herself any longer; she pushes her chair back from the table and stands up, her eyes blazing as she looks down on the two men.
“Why have you brought me here? Why are you treating me like this? I supported the revolution! And, I recognise you.” She points at Aristarkhov. “You led the Tsar’s troops on the Nevsky Prospect!”