by Amber Lough
There were more writers in Petrograd than pigeons, but I held my tongue. I hadn’t seen this side of Maxim in a long time. He’d swung so quickly from repentance to optimism that I didn’t want to crush his spirits.
“And then you can go back to university, get back to your studies,” he added. “You can quit your job at the factory with those peasant girls. You shouldn’t have to work. Especially in a place like that.”
“I’m not going to quit my job as long as there’s a war,” I snapped. I couldn’t let myself think of the university. Of how even Papa had seemed to approve of my ambitions to become a chemist. Of how it was the closest I’d ever come to making him proud of me.
“So you’re not doing it for the money?” His tone took on a mocking edge. “I distinctly remember you saying we need every—”
Impatiently, I cut him off. “Can’t someone do something for more than one reason? Does it always have to be this or that? It’s a good thing I don’t work just for the money, because that money is gone. Now, please, I had a long day.’” My voice broke, and I coughed to cover it. “I’m tired.”
His face fell. Without another word, he stepped back and shut my door.
I didn’t cry.
“Was she a warrior?”
“In a way, yes. She fought for her people, and for her son.”
“Like a mama bear.”
“Some might say her claws were just as sharp.”
3
March 27, 1917
In the very heart of Petrograd, an unassuming door pressed into the corner of a yellow-stoned building. A small brass plaque marked it as a printing shop, but those who read a specific newspaper knew it as the home of Pravda.
Pravda had grown infamous over the past month. In a surprise to everyone, the Women’s March had brought the Tsar’s government to its knees. With his soldiers unable to stomach firing on the crowds again—and with most soldiers turning coat and joining the protesters—the Tsar’s fist could not fall hard upon the city. Just three weeks ago, a wing of the socialist movement had seized power, forcing Tsar Nicholas II to abdicate and forming a provisional government.
My poor father’s latest editorial—insisting that we needed the Tsar’s leadership to stave off a German invasion, and that the socialists were nothing more than weak-willed terrorists—had fallen on deaf ears when it arrived from the front.
Meanwhile, I’d continued to fill grenades. My brother was still waiting to hear if Papa could get him discharged from the army. We were running out of time to pay his debt, so I’d come here to find the only person who had offered me help.
After checking that no one I knew was lurking out on the street or coming down the Moika Canal, I pulled open the door. The small shop was lined in display cases of card stock and letterpress invitations. A shop girl leaned over a book propped open on a display case while rolling a small bust of Pyotr the Great between her hands like a juggling ball. She glanced at me over silver spectacles.
“Can I help you?” she asked, sounding anything but helpful.
I fidgeted with my hat pin, then decided to keep the hat on. “I’m looking for one of the typesetters.”
Pyotr the Great was set aside and the book shut with a snap. “You can write down whatever spelling mistake you found and I’ll pass it on to the man.”
I took a step closer. “I need to speak with him.”
The desperation in my voice must have worked, because her hands settled onto her hips and she jerked her head at the door behind her. “Who is it?”
“Sergei Fyodorovich Grigorev.”
Sighing, she lifted a portion of the counter to let me pass through. Then she led me through a series of doors, down a hallway, and into a room as large as a tennis court. A wall of windows faced the street, casting bright afternoon light over a pair of printing presses, each manned by a team of two men. The room vibrated with the cacophonous clanging of metal.
Sergei was leaning on one hand and packing pinhead-sized pieces of type into a metal tray. His hat was turned backwards, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up and tied back with red bands. He was leaner without his thick winter coat. My pulse quickened a little at the sight of him, involuntarily. I would have turned around right there if it hadn’t been for my brother.
“Sergei Fyodorovich, there’s a girl here to see you,” the shop girl called over the noise.
His eyes swept up and widened when they landed on me. “Katya! Why are you here? Is something wrong?”
I hadn’t expected him to address me so familiarly. I tried not to show how much it took me aback.
“I’ve been thinking about your offer.” I glanced at the shop girl. He took the hint and guided me to a table that had been pushed against the wall. A battered samovar stood like a queen amongst a court of chipped and mismatched teacups. He chose a stoneware cup and fixed me some tea while I eyed our surroundings. No one was in listening range.
“Where have you been?” he asked. “I’ve called on you several times, but the army guards at your building always tell me you’re out.”
“I work a full shift.”
“I know, but women aren’t allowed to work in the factories at night, and I tried then, too.”
I didn’t need to answer his prying questions, so I ignored them. “My brother hasn’t been able to pay off what he owes his creditors. He tried to make money writing—”
Sergei snorted. “Good luck there.”
“At least he made an effort.” I sipped the tea, glad to find the samovar had kept it warm. It went down smoothly, ignoring the lump in my throat that had shown up when I decided to help the Bolsheviks. “What would your friends like to know?”
Sergei crossed his arms and smiled warmly. “How do you feel about keeping your ears open at these army wives’ meetings?”
“That’s it?” It sounded too easy, like I’d just be passing on gossip instead of betraying the secrets of my father’s institution.
“There might be a few packages for you to pick up and pass along. Nothing big. Notes, usually. The risk would be negligible for you.” He picked up another cup and poured himself some tea, which he swallowed in one gulp. “The pay isn’t fantastic, but it’s for the good of the people. And it might help you.”
“Anything helps.”
“That’s what I always say.”
I left him with plans to meet again in a few days. On my way out of the building, the girl with the bust of Pyotr the Great leaned on her elbows over the display case.
“Don’t fall for a revolutionary, girl.”
I gave her a little salute. “I won’t.” As I told Masha over and over, this didn’t seem like a good year to fall for anyone or anything.
—
April 15, 1917
I laced up my mother’s plum-colored gown with the shell buttons. It made me feel older and sophisticated in a way I never dreamed I’d truly be and was better armor than most things I had in my wardrobe. In this gown, I was a young woman who knew what she was about. I was wittier, prettier, and somehow calmer. This was what I wore when I was keeping an ear open for the Bolsheviks. I refused to think of my mother when I wore it.
Last week I’d worn it to Easter tea with General Yudenich’s wife, Elena Stefanovna. I’d been a little too eager with my questions about actions at the front—enough that she asked if I was secretly engaged to a young officer. Before I could think of a response, the other wives jumped in with suggestions, warnings, and knowing smiles. By the time I left, I’d gotten two good bits for Sergei.
Since then, I’d been bringing information to Sergei every few nights on my way home from the factory. I paid off a tiny portion of Maxim’s debt, which he had not added to, thank goodness.
And the war raged on.
This afternoon, Maxim escorted me down the block, back to General Yudenich’s home. Maxim had cleaned up, and if you didn’t lean in too close, you might think the stringent smell came from his aftershave. I’d gotten him out of the house, but now I had to mak
e sure no one noticed his half-drunken state.
General Yudenich lived in an actual house, and when I was younger I used to pretend it was a palace. Now I saw how squished it was between the other houses on the street, more like a library or museum than anything grander. Elena Stefanovna liked it that way. She’d filled every public room with books. Each room held books of a specific language—even the dining room, where all the books were French. We were ushered into the foyer by the butler, and then taken to the sitting room—the English room—to receive pre-dinner drinks and meet the others who’d been invited. Elena Stefanovna gave me a kiss on both cheeks, scanned my dress, and then dismissed me to lavish praises on how strong Maxim had gotten since Christmas, and how he should have come to visit at Easter.
“My dear boy—no, don’t look at me like that. You’ll always be a boy to me,” Elena Stefanovna said. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed anything wrong with him. She betrayed no signs of disapproval, like a wrinkling nose or a stare into his slightly bloodshot eyes. She turned to the General. “Remember when he and our Ilya raced their ponies across the parade grounds? During a parade?”
We all chuckled, then fell awkwardly silent. I’d only been five years old when the boys ran their ponies through the infantry regiment, but I’d grown up in their cadet-shaped shadows. Whenever someone mentioned Ilya, those memories twisted like briars in my gut. Ilya had patiently answered my questions about military rules, taught me how to march, even showed me how to hold a gun and a saber. He said that if I’d been born a boy, I’d be just as good at soldiering as he and Maxim were. Then he was killed in action on November 9, 1915.
If I’d ever have made a secret engagement with anyone, it would have been with him.
The General, newly retired and looking out of place in a dark suit instead of his uniform, shook Maxim’s hand. “I heard from your father that you did well out there. You were wounded and yet you still saved two soldiers. Good man.”
Maxim had told me that on the day he was wounded, he had a pebble stuck in his boot. He was crouched down in the trench, sliding it off, when the attack came. He’d had to fight in just one boot, climbing up the ladders with his men and charging across the field, only to be knocked down by the force of a nearby explosion. He’d landed on his back, staring up at the early morning sky, before he remembered he wasn’t alone.
He was sent home broken, his ears ringing and his skin poked full of holes. I’d watched his body heal, but his soul was still haunted. The General didn’t see this, of course. He only saw a war hero who’d survived a battle.
And then he turned his red nose toward me. “What’s this I hear about you working in a munitions factory, Ekaterina Viktorovna? If you wanted to help with the war, you could have been a nurse, like the grand duchesses.” I couldn’t tell from his stony expression if he was disturbed or proud to learn of my job, and so I did what I always did in these situations: I told the truth because I couldn’t think of a satisfying lie quickly enough.
“I wasn’t cut out to be a nurse.” I forced myself to look him in the eyes when I said it. “So I’m doing what I can.”
His stony face softened. “If only more people were like you, dear.”
“Darling, you must tell her the funny story!” Elena Stefanovna cut in.
The General turned to his wife, his brows set into something between confusion and irritation. “Which funny story is that?”
“The one about that woman.”
“Ah, yes. Let’s save that for dinner, shall we? I want to wait till Lermontov is here.”
Lermontov was the man I was supposed to take a message from, and the sound of his name made my pulse jump.
Elena Stefanovna took her husband’s arm and led him toward the door. “He is here. He’s just gone to have a look for a book.” She paused and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “In the German room,” she whispered. Then, after giving everyone a bright, prepared smile, she guided us into the dining room.
I was placed in front of the French philosophers bookshelf beside a waspish blond in lavender lace who’d once been an actress. Maxim sat across from me, with the General’s wife on his left. When the hawk-nosed Captain Lermontov came in, he was seated on my other side. He gave no sign that he knew he was supposed to hand me something.
Other than Maxim, I was the only person in the room under the age of thirty, and after a day at the factory surrounded by hundreds of young women, it felt deeply nostalgic, like I was having dinner with my extended family. This was how it had been when my father had been home.
We were into the second course—and Maxim had, thankfully, abstained from drink and melancholy thus far—when Elena Stefanovna reminded the General of “that woman.”
He wiped his face, took a sip of wine, and then leaned onto the table with both elbows. “I’ve been waiting all day to tell you this, Lermontov. You will love it.” He looked up and down the table. “A woman came to visit Kerensky the other day. Not that sort of woman, if you know what I mean.” He grinned at his own joke. “She got the approval from the Tsar himself to join the army, and has since been wounded twice in battle. The men respect her. To a point. Anyway, she got Kerensky cornered, and after a few hours, had him—the Minister of War—completely on her side. According to her, we’ve got the morale problem solved.”
“The morale problem?” asked the ex-actress.
“We’ve been having a bit of difficulty getting the soldiers to stick with it,” answered Lermontov. His eyes dipped to the edge of the table, then up to me. “Especially since the new government is planning to allow soldiers to form committees and discuss whether a plan of attack is worth the effort.” This last bit he said with a full tongue of scorn. Knowing what I did about his leanings toward socialism, I wasn’t sure what was an act and what was not. “Naturally, few think any attacks are worth it, and some entire battalions are marching back home.”
General Yudenich put down his knife and fork. “I believe it to be the most idiotic idea put forth this century.” His voice was edged in steel. “It would undermine both the traditions and the authority of the Officer Corps. How can a man keep his soldiers in line if there are no consequences for those who disobey? It used to be, a lieutenant could use his pistol as backup if his motivational words did not encourage the men to push forward. But now they can have committees, they can run off if they don’t like that day’s operations.” He picked his knife back up and gripped it till his knuckles were white. “Mark my words: an army cannot win a war by committee.”
The dinner party guests shifted uncomfortably on their seats until Maxim asked, “How will this woman solve the problem, then?”
At this, the General smiled again. “She’s going to shame the deserters and cowards. And you know how she’s going to do this?” He looked at me, as if I should offer a guess. He even raised a brow, daring me.
“She’s going to fight the Germans with a company of Amazons?” I offered.
Everyone laughed.
“Close, Ekaterina Viktorovna. She’s going to train a battalion of normal Russian girls and bring them to the front. To fight.”
“As soldiers?” asked the actress, with all the drama of her profession.
“Yes, as soldiers.” The General looked directly at me. “She’s not the nursing type either, not Sergeant Bochkareva. If she’d been born a man, I think she’d have made her way up the ranks by now. A captain, at the least. Normally, I’d say it was wasted on a woman, but she’s been useful.”
“Isn’t it funny?” asked Elena Stefanovna. “A woman will train a battalion of women—with uniforms and rifles and everything.”
“Even,” the General said, his eyes twinkling at me, “grenades.”
All this time, I’d been sitting in my spot near the French philosophers, trying to figure out how I could get into the German room and find Goethe’s Faust, and suddenly they were talking of women going to war.
Of course I’d seen the stories of the individual women soldiers in the newspap
ers, but I’d felt they were beyond me. I was not so brave as to march up to a commander and ask to take my place beside fifty men, and I certainly couldn’t pass myself off as a man, as some had done. Perhaps if I’d been a peasant girl, working beside men my entire life, I’d have thought differently, but I’d been nose-deep in textbooks until I started making grenades.
I’d done as much as I could at the factory, and still my father was not as proud of me as the General was of this Bochkareva woman. Papa was proud of Maxim, the soldier son who’d followed in his footsteps. Until this moment, that had never been an option for me. But now, women were going to be soldiers.
“What sort of woman would volunteer for such a thing?” asked the actress.
The General’s wife laughed. “Peasants, if they can get anyone to volunteer at all. The poor and the stupid.”
“We had a woman in our battalion,” Maxim said with a frown. “She had to pretend to be a man, shaving her hair and smoking, until she was discovered. She was from Novgorod. I think she’s still at the front, actually. They didn’t make her leave. She was pretty good.”
“But surely she would have done better working as a nurse if she had to go that far from home,” said the General’s wife.
I bit my tongue. Elena Stefanovna had always spoken of women as though we were weaker than men. Telling her how strong some of the women at the factory were wouldn’t change her way of thinking.
“Some women don’t want to be nurses,” I said.
“This woman sergeant won’t have many volunteers,” the actress said, smiling at me with sugar on her lips. “It takes a special kind of woman to—pardon my forwardness here—to take off her skirts and put on men’s trousers.”
“Many may volunteer,” said Captain Lermontov, “but few will stick with it. They don’t have the stamina for military training.”
