Open Fire

by Amber Lough

  I scanned the crowd near the car for Sergei and was glad not to find him.

  “You have no authority to be in our way!” screamed Bochkareva. Lieutenant Ornilov stood slightly behind her. Despite the fact she was junior in rank to Lieutenant Ornilov, she was clearly the person in command.

  “Disband your battalion, woman!” the worker said.

  “Get out of our way, or I will shoot!” she shouted back. She took a step closer, showing no fear. This was going to end badly.

  When I came up beside Lieutenant Ornilov, she glanced over her shoulder at me. “Tell your soldiers to go to arms.”

  The command was like a blow to the gut. We’d trained to fight Germans, not our own people.

  “Hey girl,” the man snarled, “tell your commander here there’s no more need for a war. Tell her how the Bolsheviks will save Russia.” He spoke to me, but his eyes were on Bochkareva.

  She stood her ground, her nostrils flaring. “To arms, Pavlova.” Her eyes bored into mine.

  I saluted and rejoined my platoon, each step pulling at me as though a string had been tied between me and Bochkareva. It was growing tighter and tighter.

  “Katya!” a man’s voice called from the side. “Katya, you have to get them away!”

  There were too many people lined up along the sidewalk, but I searched among the faces as casually as I could, still heading toward my platoon.

  There. Between an old woman and a cadet. Sergei, shouting at me.

  He leaned as far forward as he could, but the cadet was holding him back. “You’ve got to—”

  Bang! A gunshot cracked down the street, the sound echoing from building to building. Someone had shot into our ranks, but no one fell. The Bolsheviks began shouting at one another while the shocked spectators scattered like ice cracking on a pond. I whirled on my platoon to keep them in line. A few flinched, their eyes flicking to mine, but they did not break formation.

  “Ready!” I called. Fifty-five women lowered their rifles and pulled the bolts back and forth. “Aim!” Chins jammed into stocks, eyes narrowed, fingers resting near the trigger.

  I looked to Bochkareva, but she did not call the order to shoot. She held her arm at her side, grimacing as she watched something over my shoulder.

  The street began to rumble. Behind us raced the Cossacks, splitting their ranks of horses to flow around us. I stepped into my platoon to avoid the pounding hooves and watched as the cavalry raced past us, their red stripes flashing and their sharp sabers angled forward.

  The Bolsheviks jumped into their car and sped away in a flurry of dust, pursued by the mounted Cossacks.

  “Rifles down!” I shouted. With a collective sigh, my entire battalion disarmed.

  Bochkareva’s arm was bleeding. Lieutenant Ornilov offered her his handkerchief and she shook her head, then spit in the street.

  “I’ll get it seen to,” she muttered. Then she shouted for us all to hear, “Forward, March!”

  I tried to look for where I’d seen Sergei, but he was gone.

  —

  Back in the barracks, I pulled off my belt and dropped it beside my cap, wishing for the twentieth time or so that I could take a hot bath, eat a large lunch, and take a nap in my own bed at home.

  “That was exhausting,” I said.

  “I can’t believe no one was hurt,” Alsu said.

  “Except for Bochkareva, Shostakova, and Lieutenant Ornilov,” Masha added.

  Alsu shrugged that off. “They weren’t hurt badly.”

  “We were shot at by our own people,” I said darkly.

  “Those aren’t our people,” Masha said. She nearly ripped off her shirt trying to get the buttons undone. “Those were Bolsheviks.”

  “Bolsheviks are our people, Masha,” I said. “They believe in all of us, not just the wealthy, not just the lucky. They want us out of the war so we can focus on ourselves. So we can fix Russia.”

  “When did you turn into a socialist?” she snapped.

  “I’m not,” I said, looking everywhere but at her.

  “But you’re defending the Bolsheviks. The people who were just shooting at us.”

  “I don’t know what to believe sometimes, Masha!”

  My stomach ached, and I wanted to run outside, but there was nowhere I could go. And I would never run from my battalion.

  “That’s the way of the world,” Alsu said. She smiled at me, both understanding my confusion and urging that I let it go.

  As if in concession, Masha pulled off her cap and rubbed at her short hair till it stood back up again. “Well, you looked out for us back there, and I suppose that’s what matters right now.”

  I nodded slowly. I didn’t know whether the Bolsheviks were right about the future. It was hard for me to separate a lifetime of absorbing my father’s point of view from what I’d more recently learned during the Women’s March and the abdication of the Tsar. But for now, in this moment, I was a soldier. I was going to the war. That much I knew for certain.

  Masha lay down flat on her bench. “I will never forget this day.”

  “Do you remember when your father’s unit marched by?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. “It was beautiful the way they all marched so straight, so sharp. But today, we were those soldiers. We were the ones marching across the square.”

  “We were sharper. Better. I remember his unit. They were good, but they weren’t as good as we are. That’s what I was trying to say. I’ve seen so many military parades—more than anyone ever should—and I have to say, this was the best one. I wish . . .” I couldn’t finish it. I swallowed and sat up to start pulling off my boots. My feet were too hot. I need a pot of cold water to soothe them, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  “You wish your father could have been there to see it.” Masha knew exactly what I’d been about to say.

  I bit my tongue. I would not be weak right now. I would not.

  “He’ll hear of it. There were photographers, and it’ll be in the newspaper. And you’re a platoon leader, so you’ll stand out. Katya, he’ll see you. He will! And he’ll be proud.”

  I made a dismissive noise. She was wrong there, I was sure of it. He would find something lacking in me. I wouldn’t be in step with my platoon, or my cap wouldn’t be set at the right angle on my head, or I wouldn’t have the proper bearing of a soldier. He’d grown bitter over the years, and always lashed out at perceived imperfection.

  I wasn’t perfect, but I would never desert.

  “We’ll soon find out what he thinks,” I said, leaning back as I pulled off my boots. “We’ve been assigned to the Tenth Army at the front. That’s where he is.”

  “Birds? But that’s silly. They’d just fly away.”

  “Olga said, ‘Give me three pigeons and three sparrows from each house.’ Prince Mal was eager to make such a gift, as he’d become poor in his quest to win Olga as his bride.”

  “And his people had that many pigeons and sparrows? Each house?”

  “So it is said in the Holy Chronicles. And they gave them to her.”

  “Then what did she do? Cut off the birds’ heads and throw them at Prince Mal?”

  “There once was a peaceful monk named Kirill . . .”

  “Papa!”

  14

  June 22, 1917

  The last day in Petrograd was a strange combination of hurry and wait. We acquired two machine guns with gunners, tents, and other supplies, which were carted to the railway station. We marched from our barracks to the train station, and on the way were harassed again by Bolshevik bystanders, but this time no one blocked our path or attacked us.

  As we arrived, I couldn’t help thinking how much had changed since I came here with Maxim. I no longer worked in a factory, and he was no longer in the army. I was proudly on my way to the front, and he had slipped out the back door. I was on my way to our father, and Maxim had deserted. I’d been left behind by everyone in my family. But now, I had comrades.

  My platoon
filled an entire train car, but I was missing one of my soldiers. I had seen her that morning, but now that I thought about it, I hadn’t seen her when we formed up in the courtyard before we left the barracks. I got a queasy feeling in my stomach as I underlined her name on my clipboard.

  “Pavlova.” I turned and found Bochkareva in full gear, her new pistol on her belt and her officer’s insignia gleaming on her cap. “You’re missing Kosik.”

  “Yes,” I said, curious how she knew.

  “She slipped out after breakfast. Her mother came, crying about something to do with her little sister, and she left with her.”

  We hadn’t even left Petrograd yet, and we’d already lost a soldier. “She didn’t tell me she was leaving.”

  “She told me. If she can’t bear to leave Petrograd, I can’t have her in the battalion. Volunteers only. Now get on board.” Then she turned and went to her train car.

  I struck Kosik’s name off my list. I would miss her, but maybe it was for the best. She was too sweet, too bubbly for this, and if we were going to see a battle like what I was expecting, it could destroy her.

  I had one hand on the train car handle and one hoisting my gear up onto the steps when I heard my name being called from the platform.

  “Katya! Katya, wait!” I released the handle like it was on fire. The voice belonged to Sergei.

  I nudged my gear onto the train and then stepped back down onto the platform. The engineers were still walking up and down the cars, checking to make sure everything was in order. We had a minute.

  Sergei was in the same clothes he’d been wearing when I saw him last, but his student cap was gone. His hair flapped freely as he ran in long leaping strides toward me. “Wait!”

  “Sergei.” I forced my voice to remain calm.

  “I had to see you before you left.”

  “Were you with your comrades out there, trying to keep us from getting on the train?”

  He shook his head vehemently. “I’ve been here, trying to find you. Do you know how many women there are getting on this train? And you all look the same!” He paused to look me over. “It suits you. The uniform. The rifle. If I didn’t think this was a huge mistake, I’d applaud you.”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. I pressed my back against the train handle, where it dug into my rolled-up overcoat.

  He lifted my hands to his mouth and kissed the backs of my fingers. It was surprising, but after a month of soldier training, the gesture was more comforting than not. “I’m sorry,” he continued. “I didn’t know they were going to block your parade, or I would have been more specific. I knew they were planning something, but no one tells me details. I was watching you receive your battle flag when I heard Oleg talking about the others blocking your route. No one told them to do that. It wasn’t right. It’s—I don’t know what to do anymore.”

  “Can’t you report them to the Bolshevik leaders, then?”

  “Oh, they know about it. I heard Lenin was furious, although he can’t say anything in Pravda about it.”

  “Why not?”

  He looked bewildered. “Because it would look as if he’d lost control over the Bolsheviks.”

  “Hasn’t he, though?”

  “The revolution is made up of people, and people don’t work together like bees. Sometimes, there are rogues.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to part on a bad note. I know you’re doing what you believe in, and you never criticized me for what I believed in.”

  I laughed. “Well, that’s a lie.”

  “Maybe.” His eyes danced. “When you get back, I’ll put you right back to work, and we can continue arguing. Will you write to me?”

  “I don’t even know where to send it.”

  “Send it to the Pravda office.”

  An engineer called down the platform. “I have to go. Goodbye, Sergei.” I climbed up the stairs and an attendant shut the door, but at the last second I leaned out its open glass window. “I’ll look for you when I come back.”

  The whistle blew, so I missed whatever he said next, but he waved. I watched him grow smaller and smaller until he was gone, until the station was gone, and then, at last, Petrograd was gone.

  In the train car, my soldiers whooped at me. I waved a hand dismissively, hoping to make light of the scene they’d been watching through their windows.

  Sergei was only a friend, a comrade. I wasn’t sure I wanted to write to him. Everything we’d shared before had been words on the wind. Letters had words you could touch and tuck beneath your pillow, if you had one.

  Writing to him would mean opening a door that would be hard to shut. It would mean he meant more to me than I wanted to allow.

  “You didn’t tell me this Sergei fellow was so devoted,” Masha said, suddenly at my side. She pulled me down onto a seat.

  “You saved me a spot,” I said, smiling brightly.

  “You’re the platoon commander. Of course you get a seat. Now don’t change the subject.”

  “Sergei’s not a subject. There’s nothing to say about him.”

  I let Alsu take my kit and put it in the rack above, and I leaned back. So many days of preparation, and now we had a chance to rest. Possibly the last chance we would get. With a sigh, I shut my eyes.

  “Have you been keeping company with him?” she asked. When I shook my head, she whacked me on the shoulder. “Katya! No one else had a young man running after them just as the train was about to leave.”

  “That’s because their families were already here. They said their goodbyes. He just couldn’t find me till the last moment.” I didn’t want to talk about Sergei or families, especially after what Masha had said the other day about the Bolsheviks. She was always so sure of herself, even if she switched sides from day to day.

  Masha only snaked her hand around my upper arm and set her head on my shoulder. She smelled like lavender soap and gun oil, a bit of her old self and a bit of the new. I forced myself to stop thinking about Masha’s certainty or of Sergei’s lips on my fingers. I couldn’t allow myself to have these soft feelings for him. This was the time to harden myself, to prepare for what I knew would take every gram of focus.

  I leaned my head against the cold glass windowpane and watched the trees rush past in a blur of summer green. We were moving faster than I’d ever gone in my life. Not away, but to.

  Part Three

  Valkyrie

  “I am not one of those who left their land

  To the mercy of the enemy.

  I was deaf to their gross flattery.

  I won’t grant them my songs.”

  —Anna Akhmatova, 1922

  “Olga distributed the birds among her soldiers.”

  “I guess they were hungry.”

  “She told each man to tie a piece of sulfur bound with shreds of cloth to the foot of each bird.”

  “I knew she was going to do something strange.”

  “That night, Olga told her soldiers to light the bundles on fire and release the birds.”

  “Ooooh. And they—they all flew straight back home!”

  “Each nest in each house caught on fire’.”

  “Olga was so wicked!”

  “Yes.”

  “And also amazing.”

  15

  June 24, 1917

  Molodechno, Belarus

  It took us two days on the train to reach the Tenth Army Headquarters. Each time we made a stop along the way, people greeted us with flowers and sweets, but as we got closer to our destination the warm greetings thinned and the insults from our fellow Russian soldiers increased.

  The instant the train screeched to a stop in Molodechno, we were surrounded. Men waved rifles in the air, and others spat at the windows, making the dust run in sickening streaks down the glass. Bochkareva hopped off the train and started screaming at them.

  “Go,” I said to my soldiers. “Fall in behind her. She’s clearing our way.” We already had all our gear strapped on, ready to hop off, because by now we knew what to expe
ct. Bochkareva clearly did too, because the curses she threw out were particularly creative and must have taken some time to string up onto her tongue.

  I marched my women along the train car and we fell in behind Bochkareva. It didn’t matter that we weren’t in the correct order. We just needed to move. Avilova’s platoon filled in behind mine, and we marched, hitching our greatcoats up and winching the straps on our rifles. One of the men shouted at me, “Hey whore, come shoot my rifle!”

  I glared at him, noting he had no rifle.

  He scowled, revealing a missing tooth. “Amazonian prude.”

  “How can I be both a whore and a prude?” I asked my platoon, trying to laugh as I said it. My soldiers were out of step and the formation was losing its cohesiveness. Before I could think of a way to bolster them, the man reached out at me and grabbed my sleeve. I spun and instinctively raised the stock of my rifle above his head. It would be so easy to smash it into him. “Talk to us one more time,” I growled.

  He backpedaled into the rest of the men, who laughed and shoved him to the ground.

  “Capitalist slave!” he shouted, but by then we’d marched on by.

  After a while, the insults and slurs blended into one giant voice that said, Go home. Because you’re here, we have to keep fighting and we are tired. Of course, they didn’t like that we were women, either, and they told us over and over what they’d like to do to us with their own, personal, guns.

  They followed us until we reached the staff compound, a wooden building that looked more like a summer dacha than a military headquarters. A colonel came out and ordered the men to disperse. Then he shared some words with Bochkareva, who was as spitting mad as an alley cat.

  Eventually, she told us to follow her and a private who’d been given orders to take us to our barracks. We walked through the encampment to two dilapidated buildings the army had left vacant for very obvious reasons.