The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  ‘You should find someone else.’

  ‘The men want you. And you owe it to them to represent them.’

  ‘I don’t owe them anything. I’ve paid my dues. I fought for my country.’

  ‘Then do it for your fallen comrades.’

  Ivanov thought of Nikolai. ‘I suppose you are right. I will do it for them.’

  At the meeting, Ivanov was one of three nominated. He stepped anxiously to the platform.

  ‘Comrades.’ Nervous about standing before his peers, Ivanov paused. Clearing his throat, he started again. ‘Before the war, I was just a simple Cossack.’

  ‘We can’t hear you,’ a voice interrupted from the back. ‘Speak up.’

  ‘I have a family,’ Ivanov continued, louder this time. ‘A wife and three children. We had a small plot of land by the River Don, a home made of mud walls and a thatched roof. I knew little of the world outside our village.’ As he saw that the men were listening intently, he grew more confident. ‘When the war began, I joined the army. I pray my son will never have to witness the horrors I saw at the front. Captured by the Germans I spent months in a POW camp. And do you think the Tsar cared? The English and French governments sent parcels, but not ours. They forgot about us.’ Ivanov stopped, choked by a lump growing hard in his chest. ‘So many men, good honest Russian men, lost their lives in the camps.’

  Around the room, heads nodded.

  ‘Life was not much better for my wife and family. Pregnant with our third child, my wife could not tend our land. There were no men to help her. Forced to sell our livestock, she moved to Moscow to live with her sister. And what do you think she found here?’

  ‘No bread,’ came one response.

  ‘No coal,’ came another.

  ‘Black-market prices.’

  ‘No proper accommodation.’

  Ivanov held up his palms for quiet. ‘You are all correct. She found the same hardships as your families have been suffering. This war, started by imperialists who care little about their people, has bled Russia dry. As your representative, I will tell the congress that as the men died at the front, their families starved and froze through the long winter months. I will tell them that the Bolshevik Party demands an immediate end to the war.’ The more he spoke, the more Ivanov warmed to his task. Feelings of anger and hurt he had kept locked in his chest rushed through him. Clenching his fist, he brought it down against his open palm. ‘We demand an end to the butchery. We demand an end to the suffering of the Russian people. We demand an end to the WAR!’ he shouted.

  Around the room, loud applause broke out.

  When the votes were counted, it was declared that Ivanov had won with a convincing majority.

  ‘Congratulations.’ Dmitry shook Ivanov’s hand. ‘You will make a great representative.’

  South-Eastern Front, May

  Silence had descended across the front. His binoculars pressed to his eyes, Bogoleev scanned the enemy’s trenches from the top of a hill. Since news of the abdication, the men had little stomach for fighting.

  To his left the Russian trenches stirred with early morning activity. Men gathering for roll call moved at a lethargic pace, and when an officer walked by, few greeted him with the appropriate salute.

  News of uprisings in Petrograd started whispers circulating that the Provisional Government was under pressure to end the war. Each day, more soldiers went missing as men deserted the front in droves. Even the threat of the firing squad did little to stop the exodus. Tired and fed up with army life, those who remained showed little inclination to follow orders and reports of growing unrest and mutiny filtered daily through the wires. Watching the soldiers file in, Bogoleev wondered how many more had fled overnight.

  Growing up, Bogoleev had always dreamt of joining the army elite, and as soon as he was eligible he had signed with the infantry, seeking adventure and a better future than the one offered by his working-class family. His initial enthusiasm gave way to disillusionment as his requests to attend officers’ school were ignored. When eventually accepted, he had to work twice as hard as those men from a higher social standing. He held his tongue when less-deserving candidates received promotions and medals that rightfully belonged to him.

  The Tsar’s abdication in March came as a surprise. He could not conceive of a time when Russia would be without a monarch as its head of state. But once the shock wore off, Bogoleev found he was not averse to the end of the monarchy.

  Below him, a sergeant read the roll call. As Bogoleev suspected, more had defected. The remaining men shifted on their feet and answered to their names with little enthusiasm.

  Bogoleev sighed. It was disheartening to see men look so dispirited.

  About to join his men, Bogoleev’s attention was drawn to the sound of an approaching car. It stopped a few metres away from the line and a passenger got out. He approached the sergeant and exchanged a few words. One of the soldiers stepped forward and, together with the visitor, walked towards Bogoleev.

  Rising to his feet, Bogoleev slapped the dirt off his pants, all the time keeping his gaze on the visitor.

  ‘I’m Vasily Mishkin and I represent the Soviet Deputies.’

  Squinting slightly into the sun, Bogoleev shook hands with the visitor, his eyes darting to the envelope Mishkin carried in his hand.

  ‘I have an urgent message from Petrograd,’ Mishkin said, glancing at the soldier.

  ‘That will be all, Private,’ Bogoleev dismissed the soldier.

  ‘An All-Russian Congress of Soviet Deputies is to be convened in Petrograd,’ Mishkin began. ‘Each division is to elect a representative to attend the congress.’ He handed the envelope to Bogoleev.

  ‘What is the purpose of this congress?’

  ‘It is to give ordinary men the chance to voice their grievances and concerns before the new government. It is the opportunity to put forward ideas for a more democratic society.’

  Bogoleev opened the envelope and read the first couple of lines.

  ‘I can tell you exactly what each and every man here wants,’ Bogoleev said, lifting his eyes from the page. ‘An end to the bloodletting.’

  ‘Of course we all want a speedy end to the war,’ Mishkin conceded. ‘But Russia signed a contractual agreement at the start of the war and we have a duty as a nation to honour our promise to our allies, especially now that the Americans have joined the war on our side.’

  ‘It says here,’ Bogoleev noted, pointing to a line in the letter, ‘that the new Provisional Government has a duty to its people.’

  ‘Our leaders are working very hard to achieve a better future for our nation.’

  ‘And meanwhile men continue to die in the trenches.’

  ‘We are aware of these difficulties,’ Mishkin stammered. ‘That is why we have established the congress. Our leaders are eager for working-class Russians to voice their opinions.’

  ‘I will organise a meeting.’ Bogoleev folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. ‘You will have your representative from our division.’

  Bogoleev escorted Mishkin to his car and watched as its trail of dust receded down the road. He absent-mindedly tapped the letter Mishkin had given him against his leg. The idea of a congress at which ordinary Russians could have their say intrigued him. Motioning to a corporal, he waved him over.

  ‘Inform the men there is to be a meeting this afternoon and I want everyone to be present.’

  39

  Petrograd, June 1917

  The foyer of Mariinsky Palace swarmed with delegates attending the congress. It was the first time Bogoleev – who had been elected as a representative – had entered the great foyer and he stood in the middle of the parquet floor for a few seconds, stunned by the opulence.

  Resuming his progress, he browsed the stalls, stopping occasionally to scan the spines of books and read the brochures. In one corner, a crowd of men had gathered in front of a stand with a large red banner on which the words SOCIAL DEMOCRATIC BOLSHEVIK PARTY had been
written in bold letters. Curious, Bogoleev moved closer.

  A tall man with a thick mop of dark curly hair and small round glasses stood in the middle of the group, talking animatedly.

  ‘What we stand for is the immediate end to the war.’ Despite his boyish features, the speaker’s voice emanated confidence.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Bogoleev asked one of the men nearby.

  ‘That’s Trotsky. He’s a close comrade of Lenin’s.’

  ‘Rumour has it,’ another man added, ‘Lenin will be speaking today at the congress.’

  ‘Our enemies accuse our leaders of being German spies,’ Trotsky’s voice shrilled. ‘They ridicule our demands for peace and redistribution of land. But my comrades and I are here to give you our solemn promise that with the last breath in our bodies we will fight until this imperialist war comes to an end and our peasants, whom we believe are the legal custodians of the land, are compensated for centuries of servitude.’

  A cheer went up, followed by a press of bodies as men reached out to shake Trotsky’s hand.

  In the auditorium, Bogoleev took his place in one of the first few rows. In his breast pocket he carried the speech that he was scheduled to deliver before the congress. Pulling out the folded paper, he smoothed out the creases and was reading over the words he had prepared when he became aware of whisperings from the back of the auditorium. He turned to see what was happening.

  ‘Lenin is here.’

  Walking swiftly through the crowd, a short, stocky man with a high forehead and serious eyes made his way to the podium to speak privately to the chairman.

  The chairman turned to the leaders. ‘Due to his very busy schedule, Monsieur Lenin, the leader of the Social Democratic Bolshevik Party, asks to speak out of turn.’

  Shouts of, ‘Let him speak! We want to hear Lenin speak!’ rose from the crowd.

  Stepping behind the rostrum, Lenin waited for the cheering to die down. Once he had everyone’s attention, he leant forward.

  ‘The time has come for the Russian people to stand united. We, the Bolsheviks, believe that all ownership of the land must be redistributed to the peasants. I ask you: whose blood soaked the fields during this war? And whose families suffered while their men fought in the trenches? Was it the aristocracy? Or the bourgeoisie? Or the rich landowners?

  ‘It was none of them. It was the blood of the hard-working people; their souls used as cannon fodder to serve an imperialist, capitalist war. Furthermore, our economy, crippled by this brutal, imperialist war, is on the brink of ruin. There is no flour or coal and our people are hungry and cold. On behalf of the Russian workers, the Bolshevik Party demands that the Provisional Government and their leader, Monsieur Kerensky, declare an immediate end to all hostilities.’

  Raising his fist, Lenin’s voice hit a high pitch. ‘While our men continue to fight, our women and children starve and freeze during the long winter months from the lack of bread and coal. On behalf of the working people, I denounce the Provisional Government in their continued support of the Russian war effort. They have betrayed our revolution. This war is nothing but a tool to aid the wheels of capitalism, to serve the egos of imperialist tyrants.’ He paused, gathering his breath.

  ‘I demand an immediate end to the war. An end to the butchery. And an end to the suffering of the Russian people. I demand that power be restored equally to all Soviets. No longer should our peasants suffer at the hands of the few capitalist landowners. All estates must be expropriated. All land must be nationalised. And all peasants must have the right to dispose of the land as they wish.’

  Lenin’s voice was drowned out by cheers from the crowd. A chant started at the podium and gathered momentum until everyone was caught up in it.

  ‘All power to the Soviets!’

  ‘Down with the capitalist war!’

  Lenin’s lips curled into a smile. He raised his fist above his head and the audience responded with even louder cheers.

  ‘Land, peace and bread for the peasants and workers!’ he shouted above the noise of the crowd.

  A shiver ran across Bogoleev’s skin. He stood and joined the chorus, drowning calls for order from the chair.

  Stepping down from behind the rostrum, Lenin acknowledged the cheering crowd with a triumphant wave.

  ‘What did you think, Leo?’ Dmitry asked Ivanov, following Lenin’s address to the congress. He and Bazarov had accompanied Ivanov to the congress. ‘Did you not find it inspiring?’

  Ivanov was moved by what Lenin had said, but still felt some reservations. ‘I’m all for peace and the redistribution of land, but I’m not sure about taking the land by force,’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘Your problem is that you are too idealistic.’ Bazarov slapped a hand on Ivanov’s shoulder. ‘The gentry are not just going to hand over their land. We need to take it from them.’

  ‘Look over there: there’s a crowd gathered at the Bolsheviks’ stand.’ Dmitry craned his neck. ‘I wonder if Lenin is still here? Come on, let’s see if we can shake his hand.’

  Lenin was not there but in his place was a short, thickset man with a pock-marked face and dark wiry hair. He introduced himself as Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin.

  ‘I’ve read your articles in Pravda,’ Dmitry said. ‘You supported Lenin when he broke away from the Mensheviks.’

  Stalin smiled, clearly pleased to be recognised. ‘How are you enjoying the conference, comrades?’

  ‘We thought Lenin was an inspiring speaker,’ Dmitry said. ‘We came over in the hope of meeting him.’

  ‘Comrade Lenin had to race off to another engagement,’ Stalin explained. He handed the men a flyer each. ‘But we are having a meeting later today. Comrade Lenin will be giving a speech. You might like to join us?’

  ‘I’m not sure we can make it,’ Ivanov said. ‘We are catching the overnight train back to Moscow.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, Lyova.’ Dmitry took Ivanov’s flyer from his hand and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘I’m not giving up the chance to shake Lenin’s hand.’

  ‘Our comrade here –’ Bazarov motioned with his chin to Ivanov ‘– does not agree with Comrade Lenin’s suggestion of taking the gentry’s land by force.’

  Stalin nodded his understanding. Bending his head close to Ivanov’s he said, ‘None of us wants bloodshed, but there are times when force is a necessary evil in the quest for greater good. The Kerensky government is nothing but a puppet for the captialists. That’s why they insist on continuing with this imperialist war. As for the landowners growing fat on the sweat of the peasants, they will not easily renounce their power. In the end, neither they nor the government really care about ordinary Russians.’ Pulling his face away, he studied Ivanov’s scar. ‘Tell me, comrade, were you in the war?’

  Ivanov nodded.

  ‘And how did you receive your injury?’

  ‘In a POW camp.’

  ‘And while you were away, did the government look after your family? Did your children have enough food to eat and coal to keep warm?’

  A dark shadow passed over his face. ‘No, comrade, they did not.’

  After that, Ivanov found himself nodding to all of Stalin’s suggestions, and by the time he’d left the palace, he had agreed to join the Red Guards.

  Moscow, June

  Convincing Marina to move to Petrograd was not easy.

  ‘What will we do there?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Why do you want to pack us off to Petrograd?’

  Taking her hand, Ivanov said, ‘I have joined the Red Guards.’

  ‘You’ve done what?’ She snatched her hand away. ‘Did you not experience enough bloodshed in the trenches?’

  ‘It’s not the same. I agree I was misguided in joining the imperialist war …’

  ‘Listen to you – imperialist war!’ Marina snorted. ‘You even talk like them now.’

  ‘Oh, Marina, I wish you’d been there. I wish you had heard Lenin speak. He understands the grievances of the common people.’

  ‘Bah! I d
o not have the time to attend meetings.’ Turning to the stove, she lifted the boiled kettle and emptied its contents into a copper tub. ‘I’ve got children to feed and laundry to wash. I rise at dawn and wait in the breadline for hours and pray it does not run out before it’s my turn.’

  ‘The Bolsheviks are trying to change all that.’

  Placing a hand on her hip, she gave him an appraising look. ‘Alright. I’ll come with you. We’ll move to Petrograd. But not before you promise me we will have a place to live.’

  Wrapping his arms around her, Ivanov kissed her neck. ‘I promise. You won’t regret your decision, Marina. The Bolsheviks are going to change everything. Just wait and see.’

  Pulling herself free, she turned back to her laundry. ‘Do me a favour, Lyova …’ She kept her eyes fixed on her task. ‘Stop making promises you cannot keep.’

  40

  Tsarskoe Selo, August 1917

  At Alexander Palace, Nicholas Romanov walked along the rows of turned earth, stopping at intervals to pull out a weed or check on the first shoots of a new plant.

  Since his abdication, the former Tsar and his family had been under house arrest. Arriving in Tsarskoe Selo in late March, Nicholas had found his wife greatly distressed as the events in Petrograd spiralled out of control. With all five children sick in bed with measles, Alexandra felt she had no choice but to remain in the palace rather than join the exodus. Since then, countless letters to his cousin, King George of England, asking for asylum, had gone unanswered.

  With little to do, Nicholas spent the first few weeks wandering through the empty halls. Selecting titles from his vast collection of books, he read aloud to his children in their rooms, or silently to himself in the library. He also turned to physical activity. He shovelled snow and went on long walks around the compound.

  The guards spoke to him with an open hostility that initially confused and puzzled Nicholas. Upon meeting one of his jailers for the first time, Nicholas had offered the man his hand.