“It’s me.”
Volodin realizes it’s Clementine.
“Clementine! What are you doing here?”
All three of them move into the patchy light.
“The same as you. This belongs to you, young lady, doesn’t it? It’s your shawl, you dropped it back there. Volodin, we came here together, in Giorgi’s carriage.”
The trio moves on in silence. The narrow alley leads to a storeroom at the back of the Putilov factory. They enter through a side door. Inside, dozens of workers are having a heated discussion.
“We can’t put the women and children at the front of the demonstration. It’s too risky….”
“What’s the risk?”
“The risk of death. You don’t think that’s risky?”
“They wouldn’t dare shoot them. They’ll shield the others.”
“Well, look who’s here! Volodin! With two women!”
“One is … I know you! Clementine! The anarchist! Didn’t you say … what did you call us? You said you didn’t want to have anything to do with us!”
“And I meant it. Not with you or with your Assembly of Russian Factory and Mill Workers of the City of St. Petersburg because you forget we women exist.”
“Politics aren’t for women.”
“Not that again! Politics aren’t, but work is, right?”
“Yes. Sewing, looking after children, things like that.”
“But aren’t we colleagues, equals?”
“We’re different, thank God.”
“So I’m supposed to just keep my mouth shut while inside me my heart’s on fire?”
“That’s enough, Clementine, enough of your stupid nonsense.”
“We all have the right to change our opinions, and I hope that one day you will. Your eyes will open, and you’ll see us as equals.”
“Quiet. We have three hundred female members. Just ask Vera Karelina.”
“We’re an afterthought, the tail of the fox, not the feet, the head, the mouth, as if we didn’t have the same rights as men. But I’m not here to argue with you, though there’s no shortage of reasons to. I’m here to see Father Gapon, I need to give him a personal message.”
“Are you going to march tomorrow?”
“Clementine! If you march, don’t make any trouble. You had the nerve to call him an ‘infiltrator,’ don’t you remember?”
“That was her? I sure remember!”
“Get out of here!”
“Down with the anarchists!”
“Anarchist!”
“Calm down, Father Gapon has been called much worse things than a government agent.”
“I need to speak with him in person,” Clementine repeats, unperturbed by this reception.
“About what? Why don’t you tell us what it’s about?”
“I’m not going to discuss it with you. Only with him. You won’t listen to what I have to say because I’m a woman.”
Aleksandra is listening but doesn’t understand. She knows a lot about Father Gapon, but she has no idea what they’re talking about. And what is this about Clementine being an “anarchist”? She’s never heard that word. Is it the opposite of a socialist revolutionary? Or a democratic Marxist? A Menshevik? Or a Bolshevik? Her brother Vladimir throws these words around, and they’ve filled her head, like pilings for a bridge she doesn’t know how to build.
“Stop arguing,” Volodin interrupts. “They told me where Father Gapon is, let’s go.”
They head toward the river, to the flood-prone, low-lying land known as the Haven, where the laborers who man the mills, the furnaces, and the factories live in miserable, haphazard shanties without any public utilities. They cross the Haven, which could be a play area for children but instead is a trash heap where social outcasts live.
Thousands have gathered in the church of the Holy Mother of Pardon: men, women, children. Father Gapon is speaking animatedly at the podium.
“Will the police and the army dare to stop us?”
“They won’t dare!” the congregation replies, voices raised.
“Comrades, is it better to die for our cause than to continue living as we have done to this day?”
“We’ll give our lives!”
“Do you swear to die for our cause?”
“We swear!”
“If you swear, raise your hand.”
Thousands of hands shoot into the air.
“Comrades, what if those who swear today lose heart and don’t join us tomorrow?”
“We curse them! We curse them!”
Father Gapon begins to read the petition they’ll deliver to the tsar at the Winter Palace tomorrow. He pauses after each sentence, and the congregation repeats after him—by now, they all know it by heart:
“We have come to see you, Father, seeking justice and protection.”
The crowd repeats after him.
“We’re living in misery, oppressed, crushed by the weight of our labors, insulted, treated like slaves, it’s inhuman.” Word for word, they repeat what the reverend says.
Now and then Father Gapon stops to ask the crowd, “Is this true, comrades?”
They agree with a roar, many of them crossing themselves, a sign that the words the reverend is saying are sacred.
Gapon begins to give instructions.
“Everyone should wear their Sunday best. Bring your women and your children. No one should carry a single weapon, not even knives. We’ll have no red flags, not even red handkerchiefs. Come when you hear the church bells ring, bring crosses and icons and portraits of the tsar, ask to borrow them at your chapels and your workplaces.”
He pauses. A murmur runs through the crowd. They knew about the clothing and the weapons and the red flags, but this bit about crosses, icons, and portraits of the tsar is something new. The murmurs are of assent; if the reverend has asked, they’ll have to bring them.
“What if the tsar turns us away? Then we won’t have a tsar!”
Rutenberg, the intimate of Father Gapon—the clergyman has thousands of followers but only one friend—joins him at the podium and speaks.
“We could be attacked. So I’m going to give you instructions now on where to get weapons to protect yourselves….”
They boo, shouting, “No one should carry any weapons!”
“Apostasy!”
“Heresy!”
“No one should lift a finger against the tsar!”
One of Father Gapon’s other lieutenants jumps onto the podium and says, “Is it possible to get closer to God with weapons? Is it possible to get closer to the tsar with hostility and suspicion?”
The congregation chants, “Apostasy!” their voices filling the church.
There are so many people crowded indoors that the candles flicker out from lack of oxygen.
Gapon begins speaking again, and Rutenberg, like a new convert, nods enthusiastically at his message of peace. Gapon calms the crowd down. Rutenberg steps off the podium. Gapon stresses the peaceful and spiritual nature of the march that will begin in a few hours. He says a prayer. He sings a religious song and gets the whole audience to join him. Then he asks, “Will any of you bear weapons tomorrow? Is anyone bearing weapons tonight?”
“No one! No one!” the crowd shouts in unison.
“Good. We’ll approach the tsar without a single weapon.”
Father Gapon steps off the podium, followed by his lieutenants. A young man takes his place and repeats Gapon’s words to the people. “Comrades, will the police and the army dare stop us?”
“They won’t dare!”
“Comrades, is it better to die for our cause than to continue living as we have been?”
“We’ll give our lives!”
“Comrades, do you swear to die for our cause?”
“We swear!”
“Comrades, what if those who are swearing tonight lose heart and don’t join us tomorrow?”
“We curse them! We curse them!”
“Comrades, what if the tsar turns
us away?”
Volodin, Aleksandra, and Clementine struggle through the crowd toward the front, announcing that they have a message for Father Gapon they must deliver personally. They reach him as he’s exiting the church through a side door.
Clementine goes directly to him, looking him in the eyes. She says, “This is only for your ears, I come straight from Vladimir.” She whispers the password in his ear. Father Gapon takes her hand and steps away from his entourage to hear what she has to say. He makes a sign to his men to form a circle around them so he can hear in relative privacy what is meant only for his ears; in the blink of an eye, their backs surround them. Father Gapon leans over to hear her, and Clementine brings her mouth to the ear of this Ukrainian man of the cloth.
“The tsar won’t receive you in St. Petersburg, Father Gapon. They’ve made it clear to Vladimir. He’s the only one who returned, they took the other messengers prisoner and won’t release them. Vladimir asked me to tell you that the tsar won’t return tomorrow, he won’t receive your petition.”
Father Gapon straightens up and says loudly, “Young woman, I know all this.”
“There’s more, Father,”—now Clementine does not take care to lower her voice. “The center of the city has been wallpapered with notices announcing a new decree prohibiting demonstrations, on pain of death.”
Father Gapon makes a gesture as if to say he already knows and it doesn’t matter. Clementine replies, practically shouting, “Don’t make the people march, Father. Your messenger says the tsar won’t receive them and the police have warned that they will kill your people! You’re leading them to the slaughter!”
Father Gapon stares daggers at Clementine and makes a show of blessing her with his hand before turning his back on her and joining his entourage while his lieutenants remark, “A crazy woman. Lord have mercy upon her!”
“No, she’s not crazy. She’s a corrupt government agent!”
They surround Aleksandra and push Clementine out of the reverend’s circle. Volodin stays by Clementine’s side, instinctively protecting her; he takes her arm and they move away.
As soon as the crowd is behind them, Clementine curses under her breath, “Damn bomb! If only it had exploded, if only …” Then she screams, “My bomb wasn’t meant to kill anyone! But Father Gapon … he’s not just playing with fire, he’s leading them to the …”
And Volodin thinks, Yes, Clementine has lost it, she’s gone crazy on us, Father Gapon is the kindest man on earth.
“I’ll leave you here, Clementine. I have to go back for Vladimir’s sister, I promised Giorgi I’d look after her….”
14. Our Moment of Greatness
When his trusty messenger, Vladimir, left for Tsarskoye Selo with his message for the tsar, Father Gapon gathered his men around him.
“This is our moment of greatness. If there are casualties, don’t have regrets. We’re not marching into the fields of Manchuria, but if it comes to pass that blood is spilled in these streets, it will serve to prepare the ground for Russia’s rebirth. If something happens to me, don’t think ill of me. Let’s show them that workers can not only organize but also give their lives for our cause.”
These words cause a great stir, and some of his men become frightened for the first time, but they suppress their fear because Father Gapon often exaggerates. As if he hasn’t spoken seriously enough, he adds, “Let’s take a photograph before we say goodbye.”
“Why say goodbye?” This last comment is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. “Are our lives in danger?”
“No, no, no. Remember that I told you General Fullon has promised not to take a single prisoner. You’re all safe. But as for me, my luck has run out, it’s either prison or death.”
In trying to allay their fears, he’s opened Pandora’s box. Now they know their peaceful march is going to be more turbulent than they had foreseen. Rutenberg, Father Gapon’s friend, was the only one sensible enough to see that things might turn out badly.
This all happened a week ago.
15. With Father Gapon
After his encounter with “crazy” Clementine, Father Gapon greets Aleksandra with effusive enthusiasm.
“She’s our Vladimir’s sister,” he pronounces as loudly as he’s able—his voice is shot from speaking to dozens of crowds across St. Petersburg, in churches, warehouses, factories, the streets. He repeats, “Vladimir, Vladimir,” so those closest to him will repeat the name. It’s his way of asking them to welcome her, to reassure her that her brother will return from the mission he’s undertaken for “the cause.”
Father Gapon explains, “Vladimir was taken prisoner by the tsar’s henchmen, those malignant tumors that feed off our father.” He says this loud and clear despite the fact that he’s received news to the contrary: that Vladimir has returned, that the tsar refused to receive his message, and that the police have taken his companions prisoner. Clementine’s message was old news.
Father Gapon knows Aleksandra well, and not only because she’s his messenger’s sister. He knows she’s a favorite of Elizaveta Narishkina, the tsarina’s lady-in-waiting, a faithful member of the court and a Gaponist through and through, whom the reverend cultivates because she’s his direct line to the tsarina. This is a well-kept secret known only to his inner circle; there’s no need to make his alliance with Narishkina public. He’s so careful about this connection that even now he doesn’t want to pressure her to get the tsarina to intervene, to get the tsar to receive them. He doesn’t want to test the relationship.
In addition, Aleksandra grew up in an orphanage where Gapon literally reigned for many years. Gapon had been the priest in charge of the Second Orphanage of the Moscow–Narva Branch of the Society of Solicitude for Poor and Sick Children, the one people call the Blue Cross Orphanage, while also teaching at the Orphanage of Saint Olga. In return, he was awarded a church, which he quickly filled with followers, multitudes of the poor who went to listen to his moving sermons. Soon people who were interested in justice and political activists of all stripes started coming too. The way he celebrates the rites is approachable and moving, and his sermons whip people up into a frenzy. He lets his faithful sing their prayers to the tunes of popular songs and urges them to spend most of the service on their knees, which creates a feeling of belonging, of solidarity, of excitement, of fervor that’s religious but social, too, and, according to his detractors, borders on fanaticism.
He’s so magnetic that even nonbelievers attend his church, like the Social Democrat who was quickly converted to the cause, explaining that he’d never attended a religious service like Gapon’s: “He’s a true artist, he seems to see everything with his hypnotic, magnetic gaze, and to see through you, too, his face shining, his movements so gentle, so profound, his splendid baritone voice communicating a contagious enthusiasm. If he prays for the dead, we all weep, if he agitates for justice, we all thirst for justice, if he’s celebrating a birth or a marriage, the congregation laughs and cries with joy; I do, too, even though I don’t believe. When I see him, I can’t take my eyes off him, I want to keep on listening to him even if he repeats things we’ve all learned by heart over and over again. He’s a phenomenon, Gapon is a phenomenon.”
Lastly, Aleksandra is best friends with Sasha Uzdaleva, the young woman Father Gapon took from the orphanage four years ago. He brought her to live with him when she was twelve years old. To this day, Sasha (now sixteen) is his companion, his concubine. He has recommended that she not see Aleksandra, afraid that, with her connection to Narishkina, word would get out about his private life in the tsarina’s court.
“How could you have so much to talk about with Aleksandra, Sasha? She’s such an uninteresting woman.”
“Women’s things. That’s what she and I talk about.”
But whenever Aleksandra has a day off—which isn’t often, since Anya Karenina relies on her for everything—she visits Sasha, who, although closely watched, manages to find ways to escape. Gapon knows about every meeting his l
over, Sasha, has (Gapon learned a lot when he worked for Sergei Zubatov, the former chief of the Okhrana).
Gapon also wants to keep an eye on Aleksandra, but from a distance, since someone might photograph them together, and if the Princess Elizaveta Narishkina suspected that Father Gapon was getting her Aleksandra mixed up with the members of the assembly, it would cause a commotion in circles whose reach would set off an avalanche he’s not prepared to face.
16. Clementine, in Pursuit of the Night
Clementine leaves her brief meeting with Father Gapon wild with rage. Where should she go? She makes a spur-of-the-moment decision, and the minutes fly as she walks to the anarchists’ lair. She hadn’t planned on stopping by; she has no desire to see the agents of her failure. Which one is the imbecile who built the bomb that didn’t destroy the tram and its rails? But after her encounter with Father Gapon, she desperately needs their company.
The group of her accomplices is small, nothing like the multitudes that follow Father Gapon: they reject all authority, they despise ceremony, they don’t believe in any god or leader (Clementine included), and to all of this, there’s an intense fanaticism and burning irreverence that borders on the obscene.
They call themselves Stenka Razin, in honor of the Cossack hero who led a group of bandits, insurgents, and fugitives—“Fear the wrath of my vengeance!”—who took on the tsar, the Persians, and the Kalmykian Tartars and was faithful only to the River Volga and his mother Russia.
It was a matter of some debate to find a name for the group, because they can never agree on anything. Someone proposed the name Samson Group, but Clementine objected: why would they name themselves after a man who’d had his eyes gouged out when he knocked down the pillars of the Philistines’ temple, burying himself in the rubble?
“His ‘I die with the Philistines!’ is the act of a blind man.”
She had proposed the name Three Hundred Foxes, after the ones Samson caught, tying them up by the tails and setting their tails alight before releasing them into his enemies’ camps to burn them down. But there wasn’t much support for the name Foxes. Stenka Razin seemed to please the majority, so that’s what they’re called.
The Book of Anna Page 6
