by Amber Lough
The next obstacle was low to the ground. Real barbed wire crossed over a trail at knee height, and my platoon was already in the thick of it. There was a bit of a line as they waited for the person ahead to get through, so I ran up alongside the wire, yelling at them to keep their faces down, to move, to dig in with their knees. Then it was my turn, and I dropped to the ground and began sawing myself forward on elbows and knees, my stomach dragging in the sand. My cap got caught for a second, and when I reached up to tug it free, I was finally happy my hair was gone. My teeth were coated in sand and my knees were on fire, but my scalp was safe.
“What’re you smiling at, Pavlova?” Sergeant Zapilov shouted. I ignored him and kept going.
“Ten minutes!”
When I was out from beneath the barbed wire, I didn’t bother brushing the sand off. I ran between the dunes, leaping along the wooden posts set up in the smooth tide of the sea, nearly slipping into the cold water, and then raced to another climbing obstacle. Alsu was stuck again, but just barely. I reached up beneath her and shoved, and she toppled to the other side. Once I was over, I helped her up. She eyed me grimly until I dragged her after me.
“One more,” I panted, and she nodded wordlessly.
Masha was ahead of us punching and kicking the straw-stuffed dummies with the German Iron Cross painted on the front. She would hit one till it swayed on its reed pole, and then run to another, zig-zagging across that part of the field. While Alsu ran in to join her, I scanned the area for my platoon. Most had gone through the finish line already, but a few were still at the dummies. When I checked at the last climbing structure, I saw Muravyeva clutching her thigh with one hand and hoisting herself over the with the other. She wasn’t moving fast enough, and our time was running out.
I climbed up the structure.
“What’s wrong?”
Wet sand streaked across her cheekbones. “Cramp,” she said, avoiding my eyes. “Just a cramp.”
“Thirteen!”
I reached down and offered her my hand.
“I can do it,” she said.
“Take it.” When she continued to inch her way up, I thrust out my hand again. “Muravyeva, take my hand!”
She finally let go with one hand and clamped onto my wrist. I yanked her up. My arm was straining, and my legs were latched onto the wooden planks so hard I was afraid they’d break, but I got her to the top. She paused for a second, sucked in a deep breath, and then nodded in gratitude.
“Let’s move!” I said.
“Fourteen!”
Together we rammed into the dummies, and when we crossed the finish line, she was a half-step ahead. I was the last in my platoon, as planned. It took everything I had to move my legs, to breathe, but then someone was clasping my hand and pulling me away from the line.
Sergeant Bochkareva was the only clean woman in sight. She had dirt on her boots, sure, but she didn’t have sand caked into her short hair. My uniform was soaked with sweat and my fingernails were split and filled with grime. My arms felt like they were going to fall off.
I had never, ever, felt so alive.
Energy poured through us, and we stood around while the sergeant told us what we did right or wrong, eyeing each other in surprise. We’d made it through. Hundreds of women made it through the army’s obstacle course. If we could do that on just a few hours’ sleep, we could do so much more.
That energy spread to the instructors, too. Their eyes shone brighter, and Sergeant Bochkareva couldn’t shake off her grin. She had her battalion.
We’d made it over the wall, across the deep, soft sand, and under the wire. We hadn’t won the war yet, but we’d won our first battle.
“Soldiers!” Bochkareva shouted again, and my mind shot back to her. “Tomorrow, you’re doing it again.” I grinned at Masha. Let them order us to do this every day. “With rifles.”
The groan was loud enough they could probably hear us back in Petrograd. I studied the obstacle course again, wondering how I could do half the things with an extra ten pounds on my back. At the moment, I was too tired to carry a silk chemise.
Sergeant Bochkareva put her hand up for silence. The corner of her mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh.
“You’ll do it with rifles, and you’ll be faster than you were today. I have faith.” She turned on her heels and marched to where the lieutenants were smoking cigarettes. “Especially now.” She said the last words under her breath, but I was close enough to hear it.
—
Back at the barracks, we took turns at the bathhouse. Even with only a quarter of an inch of hair, it was hard to get the sand the out of my scalp. I dunked my whole head in a bucket of lukewarm water and rubbed furiously. It felt like heaven. I came up to breathe, then dunked my head back in again, wishing I could save up moments like this for later.
“I will trade you everything on my lunch plate if you massage my feet for me right now.” Masha leaned against the wall, fully dressed but for her bare feet.
“Massage your own feet.” I laughed and rubbed the towel over my head.
With an overly dramatic sigh, she rubbed her feet for a few seconds before wrapping on fresh portyanki. “When this is all over, I am going to stay in bed for three days and do nothing but read books and eat cake.”
Alsu sat down beside her. “I’m taking my three daughters to Greece.”
Masha and I turned to look at her in surprise.
“Why Greece?” I asked.
“It’s always warm there, and no one has to really work. They go fishing all day, kicking their feet in the warm ocean.” She stared me down. “And don’t tell me otherwise. I want to believe this is the truth about Greece.”
“Sounds heavenly to me,” said Masha. “I’ll have to visit you there.”
As I buttoned up my collar, I turned away from them, hoping they’d move on to another topic. I’d always wanted to study chemistry in Paris, like Marie Curie, but the war had shattered my plans. When my babushka died and I left the university to take work at the factory, my professor said the time out of school would rot my brain, that I would forget everything he’d taught me. He even threatened that the TNT would poison my blood, killing me slowly.
Maybe there wasn’t anything on the other side of this war. Not for me.
“Katya?” Alsu asked. “What about you?”
I made myself smile before I turned back around. “Oh, I’m planning on an entire career in the army. Officer bars. Maybe a horse.” They both looked stunned, even Masha.
“You want to do this for the rest of your life?” Masha asked.
I tucked my shirt in. “Or maybe I’ll just come back here, live off my father’s money, and take warm baths and drink buckets of honey tea.”
“You’ll end up back in school,” Masha said, tying her boot laces. “I bet my life on it. You’re destined to be a great chemist.”
Instead of responding, I held up my rifle. “How are we going to keep these things clean tomorrow?”
Alsu peered down her barrel and frowned. “I don’t know how we’ll keep the mud out of this.”
Avilova made her way between the benches. She caught my eye and waved a small stack of letters at me.
“These came for you,” she said. “One is a telegram from the front.”
My hand shook when I took the letters. I sat back down on my makeshift bed with Masha and Alsu flanking me.
“Is that from your father?” Masha asked, pointing at the smaller one. I nodded and ran a finger over my name on the envelope. “He must have found out, then.”
It didn’t matter if they read it too, I decided, and ripped it open.
Keep your head down. You are not St. Olga.
–V. Pavlov
No, because this isn’t a revenge story! I wanted to yell to him, sending my voice across the fields and forests.
“He must be proud of you,” Alsu said, gently squeezing one of my hands in hers. “If he didn’t believe you could do this, wouldn’t he have to
ld you to leave? Or found some way for the army to take you out? All he had to do was say you were underage and didn’t have his permission.”
“If he did that, he’d have everyone saying both of his children were cowards.”
Alsu got up and went to her bed, where she began rifling through her little bag of private belongings. She pulled out a prayer book and opened it to where a small photograph had been stuck in as a bookmark. She handed me the prayer book, pointing at the photograph. It was of a man in a Tatar uniform, with a large woolen hat covering half of his head. His eyes were calm and focused away from the camera.
“That’s Karim. He was looking at me when we had this photo made.” I was afraid to ask the obvious question, but she answered it anyway. “He died in October, in the Crimea.” Her voice was softer and it was suddenly my turn to comfort her.
“I’m sure he was brave and loved you very much.”
Nodding, she blinked away the wetness in her eyes. “If he were here now, he would not be telling me to stay home with our daughters. He’d understand that I cannot just sit and wait for the war to end—he’d let me go. Like your papa.”
Masha, never one to be left out of a conversation, took the prayer book from me and studied Karim’s photograph. “Is this why you want to go to Greece?”
Alsu sighed. “It’s a nice dream, isn’t it? To see my girls wading in warm waters. To see them happy again. For that, I’ll do anything.”
“Who are they with now?” I asked, feeling for the girls.
“With my family. They have many cousins to play with.” Then she took the prayer book, gently ran a finger over Karim’s face, and put it back in her little cotton bag. “Do you have something to keep that in?” she asked, gesturing at the telegram. The telegram had become a triangle, just like the last one Papa had sent me. I flicked it between my fingers, over and under, and then slid it into my leather munitions bag.
My father had, in very few words, given me permission to fight.
Not that I needed it.
“Who sent you the other one?” Masha asked. “It’s local.”
I knew, even though there wasn’t a sender’s name on the outside. “Sergei,” I said, and I curled away from her so I could open it without an audience. I could almost feel her eyes rolling at my backside.
Katya, please be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.
—S. Grigorev
Did he mean at the front? Or were the Bolsheviks planning something to keep us away from the train?
“Did he send his love?” Masha asked with a yawn.
“In a way.”
I couldn’t tell her. We shared so many things, but the extent of my involvement with the Bolsheviks wasn’t one of them, so I let her believe Sergei’s letter was full of poetry and slipped it under my pillow.
—
June 21, 1917
We were done. Training was over, and today we would march to Saint Vasily’s Cathedral and receive our blessing.
“Where’s my belt buckle?” Masha brushed by, quickly, and dug through her bag once more. “I can’t find it anywhere.” The barracks buzzed with activity, with soldiers polishing boots and pinning the new emblems onto caps. In the corner, Dubrovskaya bent her dark head and finished sewing the last of the letters onto our battalion’s silk banner.
I leaned against the wall with my feet pulled close and wrapped on my portyanki until every toe and both ankles were well covered. “Did you ask Alsu?”
“She hasn’t seen it either.”
“Did you check inside your boots?”
“What?” She paused and shook her left boot. It rattled. “How did you know?”
Shrugging, I slipped my feet into my boots and stood up. “Just a guess.”
She whirled around, picked her belt up off her bed, and put it on around her tunic. “We only have two minutes before we have to be outside.”
I rubbed at the top of my head. “It’s a good thing we don’t have to worry about doing our hair then.” She had two minutes, but I only had one. As platoon leader, I had to be out there before my soldiers. I slapped my cap on, straightened my lapels, tugged my tunic down over my hips, and went to the rifle rack to get my rifle. I was out in under thirty seconds and my nerves didn’t catch up to me until I reached the courtyard.
My heart was beating too quickly. It was just a parade. Just a long walk to the center of Petrograd. Just a peek inside the cathedral. But I could hear the horses clomping down the road outside our little training haven, and I knew it was more than just a walk, just a parade. The Saint Georgi’s Cavaliers were going to lead us, and we would also be accompanied by the Ninth Reserve Cavalry, two Cossack regiments, a few other regiments and even some cadets. But the main attraction today would be the newly trained, shiny and perfect Battalion of Death of Maria Bochkareva.
My soldiers milled in front of me, waiting for me give them the word.
“Fall in!” My voice shook, but I didn’t think they noticed. Their complexions were either paler or ruddier than normal, but everyone shone with fresh polish. Masha, at the front in the third column, looked over my shoulder, careful to keep her eyes on the horizon. She’d learned well.
I turned around and waited while the other three platoons got in line. Avilova’s platoon looked much the same as mine, and I gave her a nod to show her I was ready. Then Bochkareva came forward.
“They’re waiting in the street for us! Thousands of proud Russians waiting to cheer for you!” She shouted so that everyone could hear. “Look sharp! Stay in step! And do exactly what your platoon leaders tell you to do!” Then, even louder, “Forward, March!”
The order came down to Avilova and me, and we in turn had our platoons marching forward, one after the other, out the gates.
There were no cars, wagons, or trams in our way, but there were more horses than I could count. The cavalrymen looked smart in their dress uniforms with the red stripe down the side of the leg, their shiny boots and swords, their rifles slung over their backs. Their massive, snorting warhorses had been brushed till they shone. Their size did nothing to still my nerves. Once they passed, we filed in behind them, making a Column Right directly onto the street.
Other regiments marched behind us, noticeable only by the sound of their leaders’ calls, deeper than any woman’s, but I didn’t turn to look. I had to keep my women in step and in line so that when we were seen, we looked good. We had to look good, because everything was riding on our shoulders. Not only did we have to pass muster as basic soldiers, we had to meet the higher standard of a death battalion—a suicide battalion. We had to prove to everyone that we weren’t weak, we weren’t hysterical, and we weren’t afraid. We were disciplined, fit, and deadly.
We marched at a good pace. The closer we got to Saint Isaac’s Square, the more people there were standing on the sides of the streets, waving flags and cheering for us.
“Those are real Russian girls!” someone shouted.
“Show the men what courage means!”
When the road opened up into Saint Isaac’s Square, and the domed golden cathedral loomed over us all, it took all my self-control to keep my face neutral. There were thousands of people. The collective roar of their voices gave me goosebumps, and I couldn’t hold back a small smile. If it weren’t for the cavalry leading the way, I’m not sure they would have made enough room for us to march through. Fortunately, people backed up when a warhorse was approaching.
The cavalry stopped in front of the cathedral’s door, and for a split second, I wondered if they would ride the horses straight inside. Bochkareva called us to a halt, someone pulled open the cathedral doors, and we filed in.
I’d never gone in the cathedral with a weapon before, and the rifle felt heavier, the stock slippery. I gripped it tight, thumbing the stock. The malachite and lapis lazuli columns shone, framing the iconostasis that decorated the altar. Without intending to, I searched out the icon my grandmother had ticked off on her list. It was still there. She was not, but I
tucked away that pang knowing she might have been the only babushka in the city to approve of a battalion of women carrying rifles into the nave.
Avilova, Liddikova, Mussorgskaya, and I joined Bochkareva and the two company commanders at the front. We were greeted by the Archbishop Veniamin of Petrograd, the highest-ranking priest in the city.
It all happened like a waking dream. Bochkareva was promoted to the rank of sub-lieutenant and given a revolver and a saber. Dubrovskaya came forward and presented the red-and-black banner with Saint Georgi on one side and our skull-and-crossbones emblem on the other. The words “Women’s Battalion of Death of Maria Bochkareva” were embroidered around the skull, and it stuck to Dubrovskaya’s legs while the Archbishop waved his hand over the golden fringe.
Then it was over and we filed outside into the square. The army orchestra started up with the “La Marseillaise”—a song of the revolution, of fighting tyranny and foreign invasion. Each beat of the drums echoed in my stomach, filling me with a sense of unity. I was not alone anymore. I had a band of sisters now, and together we would go to fight.
We turned off Nevsky Prospekt and were marching toward the Field of Mars when the parade came to a stop. My platoon marched in place for a moment before I halted them so that I could take a look up ahead. We nearly filled the street, so to get a clear view, I had to get close to the sidewalk and the throngs of people who’d lined up to watch us.
A car blocked the road ahead, but no one sat inside it. Red flags flapped from poles stuck into the seats, and around the car, like a hive of hornets, swarmed a group of men with red armbands. They were shouting.
“End to the war!”
“No Kerensky Offensive!”
Bolsheviks. This wasn’t just a blockade. In an instant, I knew this was what Sergei’s note had been warning me against.
“Sergeant Bochkareva!” I shouted in warning, but she’d already run to the front to yell at the men blocking our passage. Turning around, I called Masha out of the platoon and put her in charge, then joined Bochkareva. She and Lieutenant Ornilov were in a shouting match with a pair of factory workers. The men’s cheeks were ruddy with either drink or excitement.
