by Ken Follett
Before Grigori could react to this horror he heard a shout, and turned. In the doorway of a closed hat shop, a couple were having full sexual intercourse. The woman had her back to the wall and her skirt up around her waist, her legs spread apart and her booted feet firmly planted on the ground. The man, who wore the uniform of a corporal, stood between her legs, knees bent, trousers unbuttoned, thrusting. Grigori's platoon stood around them cheering.
The man appeared to reach his climax. He withdrew hastily, turned away, and buttoned his fly, while the woman pushed her skirts down. A soldier called Igor said: "Wait a minute--my turn!" He pulled up the woman's skirts, showing her white legs.
The others cheered.
"No!" the woman said, and tried to push him away. She was drunk, but not helpless.
Igor was a short, wiry man of unexpected strength. He pushed her up against the wall and grabbed her wrists. "Come on," he said. "One soldier's as good as another."
The woman struggled, but two other soldiers grabbed her and held her still.
Her original partner said: "Hey, leave her alone!"
"You've had your turn, now it's mine," said Igor, unbuttoning.
Grigori was revolted by this scene. "Stop it!" he shouted.
Igor gave him a challenging look. "Are you giving me an order as an officer, Grigori Sergeivich?"
"Not as an officer--as a human being!" Grigori said. "Come on, Igor, you can see she doesn't want you. There are plenty more women."
"I want this one." Igor looked around. "We all want this one--don't we, boys?"
Grigori stepped forward and stood with his hands on his hips. "Are you men, or dogs?" he cried. "The woman said no!" He put his arm around the angry Igor. "Tell me something, comrade," he said. "Is there anywhere around here where a man can get a drink?"
Igor grinned, the soldiers cheered, and the woman slipped away.
Grigori said: "I see a small hotel across the street. Shall we ask the proprietor whether, by any chance, he has any vodka?"
The men cheered again, and they all went into the hotel.
In the lobby a frightened proprietor was serving free beer. Grigori thought he was wise. It took men longer to drink beer than vodka, and they were less likely to become violent.
He accepted a glass and drank a mouthful. His elation had vanished. He felt as if he had been drunk and sobered up. The incident with the woman in the doorway had appalled him, and the small boy firing the machine pistol had been horrendous. Revolution was not a simple matter of throwing off your chains. There were dangers in arming the people. Allowing soldiers to commandeer the cars of the bourgeoisie was almost as lethal. Even the apparently harmless freedom to kiss anyone who took your fancy had led, in a few hours, to Grigori's platoon attempting a gang rape.
It could not go on.
There had to be order. Grigori did not want to go back to the old days, of course. The tsar had given them bread queues, brutal police, and soldiers without boots. But there had to be freedom without chaos.
Grigori mumbled an excuse about needing to piss and slipped away from his men. He walked back the way he had come along Nevsky Prospekt. The people had won today's battle. The tsar's police and army officers had been defeated. But if that led only to an orgy of violence, it would not be long before people clamored for a return of the old regime.
Who was in charge? The Duma had defied the tsar and refused to close, according to what Kerensky had told Grigori yesterday. The parliament was more or less impotent, but at least it symbolized democracy. Grigori decided to go to the Tauride Palace and see if anything was happening there.
He walked north to the river, then east to the Tauride Gardens. Night had fallen by the time he got there. The classical facade of the palace had dozens of windows, and they were all lit up. Several thousand people had had the same idea as Grigori, and the broad front courtyard was crammed with soldiers and workers milling around.
A man with a megaphone was making an announcement, repeating it over and over again. Grigori worked his way to the front so that he could hear.
"The Workers' Group of the War Industry Committee has been released from the Kresty Prison," the man shouted.
Grigori was not sure who they were, but their name sounded good.
"Together with other comrades, they have formed the provisional executive committee of the Soviet of Workers' Deputies."
Grigori liked that idea. A soviet was a council of representatives. There had been a St. Petersburg soviet in 1905. Grigori had been only sixteen at the time, but he knew the soviet had been elected by factory workers and had organized strikes. It had had a charismatic leader, Leon Trotsky, since exiled.
"All of this will be officially announced in a special edition of the newspaper Izvestiia. The executive committee has formed a food supply commission to ensure that workers and soldiers are fed. It has also created a military commission to defend the revolution."
There was no mention of the Duma. The crowd was cheering, but Grigori wondered whether soldiers would take orders from a self-elected military commission. Where was the democracy in all this?
His question was answered by the final sentence of the announcement. "The committee appeals to workers and soldiers to elect representatives to the soviet as quickly as possible, and to send their representatives here to the palace to take part in the new revolutionary government!"
That was what Grigori had wanted to hear. The new revolutionary government--a soviet of workers and soldiers. Now there would be change without disorder. Full of enthusiasm, he left the courtyard and headed back toward the barracks. Sooner or later, the men would come back to their beds. He could hardly wait to tell them the news.
Then, for the first time, they would have an election.
{ IV }
On the morning of the next day, the First Machine Gun Regiment gathered on the parade ground to elect a representative to the Petrograd soviet. Isaak proposed Sergeant Grigori Peshkov.
He was elected unopposed.
Grigori was pleased. He knew what life was like for soldiers and workers, and he would bring the machine-oil smell of real life to the corridors of power. He would never forget his roots and put on a top hat. He would make sure that unrest led to improvements, not to random violence. Now he had a real chance to make a better life for Katerina and Vladimir.
He walked quickly across the Liteiny Bridge, alone this time, and headed for the Tauride Palace. His urgent priority had to be bread. Katerina, Vladimir, and the other two and a half million inhabitants of Petrograd had to eat. And now, as he assumed responsibility--at least in his imagination--he began to feel daunted. The farmers and the millers in the countryside had to send more flour to the Petrograd bakers immediately--but they would not do so unless they were paid. How was the soviet going to make sure there was enough money? He began to wonder whether overthrowing the government might have been the easy part.
The palace had a long central facade and two wings. Grigori discovered that both the Duma and the soviet were in session. Appropriately, the Duma--the old middle-class parliament--was in the right wing and the soviet in the left. But who was in charge? No one knew. That would have to be resolved first, Grigori thought impatiently, before they could start on the real problems.
On the steps of the palace Grigori spotted the broomstick figure and bushy black hair of Konstantin. He realized with a shock that he had not made any attempt to tell Konstantin of the death of Varya, his mother. But he saw immediately that Konstantin knew. As well as his red armband, Konstantin was wearing a black scarf tied around his hat.
Grigori embraced him. "I saw it happen," he said.
"Was it you who killed the police sniper?"
"Yes."
"Thank you. But her real revenge will be the revolution."
Konstantin had been elected as one of two deputies from the Putilov works. During the afternoon more and more deputies arrived until, by early evening, there were three thousand of them crammed into the huge Ca
therine Hall. Nearly all were soldiers. Troops were already organized into regiments and platoons, and Grigori guessed it had been easier for them to arrange elections than for the factory workers, many of whom were locked out of their workplaces. Some deputies had been elected by a few dozen people, others by thousands. Democracy was not as simple as it seemed.
Someone proposed that they should rename themselves the Petrograd Soviet of Workers' and Soldiers' Deputies, and the idea was approved by thunderous applause. There seemed to be no procedure. There was no agenda, no proposing or seconding of resolutions, no voting mechanism. People just stood up and spoke, often more than one at a time. On the platform, several suspiciously middle-class-looking men were scribbling notes, and Grigori guessed these were the members of the executive committee formed yesterday. At least someone was taking minutes.
Despite the worrying chaos, there was tremendous excitement. They all felt they had fought a battle and won. For better or worse, they were making a new world.
But no one was talking about bread. Frustrated by the inaction of the soviet, Grigori and Konstantin left the Catherine Hall during a particularly chaotic moment and walked across the palace to find out what the Duma was up to. On the way they saw troops with red armbands stockpiling food and ammunition in the hallway as if for a siege. Of course, Grigori thought, the tsar is not simply going to accept what has happened. At some point he will try to regain control by force. And that would mean attacking this building.
In the right wing they came across Count Maklakov, a director of the Putilov works. He was a delegate for a right-of-center party, but he spoke to them politely enough. He told them that yet another committee had been formed, the Temporary Committee of Duma Members for the Restoration of Order in the Capital and the Establishment of Relations with Individuals and Institutions. Despite its ludicrous title, Grigori felt it was an ominous attempt by the Duma to take control. He became more worried when Maklakov told him the committee had appointed a Colonel Engelhardt as commandant of Petrograd.
"Yes," said Maklakov with satisfaction. "And they have instructed all soldiers to return to barracks and obey orders."
"What?" Grigori was shocked. "But that would destroy the revolution. The tsar's officers would regain control!"
"The members of the Duma do not believe there is a revolution."
"The members of the Duma are idiots," Grigori said angrily.
Maklakov put his nose in the air and walked away.
Konstantin shared Grigori's anger. "This is a counterrevolution!" he said.
"And it must be stopped," said Grigori.
They hurried back to the left wing. In the big hall, a chairman was attempting to control a debate. Grigori leaped onto the platform. "I have an emergency announcement!" he shouted.
"Everyone has," said the chairman wearily. "But what the hell, go ahead."
"The Duma is ordering soldiers to return to barracks--and to accept the authority of their officers!"
A shout of protest went up from the delegates.
"Comrades!" Grigori shouted, trying to quiet them. "We are not going back to the old ways!"
They roared their agreement.
"The people of the city must have bread. Our women must feel safe on the streets. The factories must reopen and the mills must roll--but not in the same old way."
They were listening to him now, unsure where he was going.
"We soldiers must stop beating up the bourgeoisie, stop harassing women on the street, and stop looting wine shops. We must return to our barracks, sober up, and resume our duties, but"--he paused dramatically--"under our own conditions!"
There was a rumble of assent.
"What should those conditions be?"
Someone shouted: "Elected committees to issue orders, instead of officers!"
Another said: "No more 'Your Excellency' and 'Most High Radiance'--they should be called Colonel and General."
"No saluting!" cried another.
Grigori did not know what to do. Everyone had his own suggestion. He could not hear them all, let alone remember them.
The chairman came to his rescue. "I propose that all those with suggestions should form a group with Comrade Sokolov." Grigori knew that Nikolai Sokolov was a left-wing lawyer. That's good, he thought, we need someone to draft our proposal in correct legal terms. The chairman went on: "When you have agreed what you want, bring your proposal to the soviet for approval."
"Right." Grigori jumped off the platform. Sokolov was sitting at a small table to one side of the hall. Grigori and Konstantin approached him, along with a dozen or more deputies.
"Very well," said Sokolov. "Who is this addressed to?"
Grigori was baffled again. He was about so say To the world. But a soldier said: "To the Petrograd Garrison."
Another said: "And all the soldiers of the guard, army, and artillery."
"And the fleet," said someone else.
"Very good," said Sokolov, writing. "For immediate and precise execution, I presume?"
"Yes."
"And to the workers of Petrograd for information?"
Grigori became impatient. "Yes, yes," he said. "Now, who proposed elected committees?"
"That was me," said a soldier with a gray mustache. He sat on the edge of the table directly in front of Sokolov. As if giving dictation, he said: "All troops should set up committees of their elected representatives."
Sokolov, still writing, said: "In all companies, battalions, regiments . . . "
Someone added: "Depots, batteries, squadrons, warships . . . "
The gray mustache said: "Those who have not yet elected deputies must do so."
"Right," said Grigori impatiently. "Now. Weapons of all kinds, including armored cars, are under the control of the battalion and company committees, not the officers."
Several of the soldiers voiced their agreement.
"Very good," said Sokolov.
Grigori went on: "A military unit is subordinate to the Soviet of Workers' and Soldiers' Deputies and its committees."
For the first time, Sokolov looked up. "That would mean the soviet controls the army."
"Yes," said Grigori. "The orders of the military commission of the Duma are to be followed only when they do not contradict the decisions of the soviet."
Sokolov continued to look at Grigori. "This makes the Duma as powerless as it always was. Before, it was subject to the whim of the tsar. Now, every decision will require the approval of the soviet."
"Exactly," said Grigori.
"So the soviet is supreme."
"Write it down," said Grigori.
Sokolov wrote it down.
Someone said: "Officers are forbidden to be rude to other ranks."
"All right," said Sokolov.
"And must not address them as tyi as if we were animals or children."
Grigori thought these clauses were trivial. "The document needs a title," he said.
Sokolov said: "What do you suggest?"
"How have you headed previous orders by the soviet?"
"There are no previous orders," said Sokolov. "This is the first."
"That's it, then," said Grigori. "Call it 'Order Number One.' "
{ V }
It gave Grigori profound satisfaction to have passed his first piece of legislation as an elected representative. Over the next two days there were several more, and he became deeply absorbed in the minute-by-minute work of a revolutionary government. But he thought all the time about Katerina and Vladimir, and on Thursday evening he at last got a chance to slip away and check on them.
His heart was full of foreboding as he walked to the southwest suburbs. Katerina had promised to stay away from trouble, but the women of Petrograd believed this was their revolution as much as the men's. After all, it had started on International Women's Day. This was nothing new. Grigori's mother had died in the failed revolution of 1905. If Katerina had decided to go into the city center with Vladimir on her hip to see what was going on, sh
e would not have been the only mother to do so. And many innocent people had died--shot by the police, trampled in crowds, run over by drunk soldiers in commandeered cars, or hit by stray bullets. As he entered the old house, he dreaded being met by one of the tenants, with a solemn face and tears in her eyes, saying Something terrible has happened.
He went up the stairs, tapped on her door, and walked in. Katerina leaped from her chair and threw herself into his arms. "You're alive!" she said. She kissed him eagerly. "I've been so worried! I don't know what we would do without you."
"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner," Grigori said. "But I'm a delegate to the soviet."
"A delegate!" Katerina beamed with pride. "My husband!" She hugged him.
Grigori had actually impressed her. He had never done that before. "A delegate is only a representative of the people who elected him," he said modestly.
"But they always choose the cleverest and most reliable."
"Well, they try to."
The room was dimly lit by an oil lamp. Grigori put a parcel on the table. With his new status he had no trouble getting food from the barracks kitchen. "There are some matches and a blanket in there too," he said.
"Thank you!"
"I hope you've been staying indoors as much as you can. It's still dangerous on the streets. Some of us are making a revolution, but others are just going wild."
"I've hardly been out. I've been waiting to hear from you."
"How's our little boy?" Vladimir was asleep in the corner.
"He misses his daddy."
She meant Grigori. It was not Grigori's wish that Vladimir should call him Daddy, but he had accepted Katerina's fancy. It was not likely that any of them would ever see Lev again--there had been no word from him for almost three years--so the child would never know the truth, and perhaps that was better.
