A great “Hurrah!” went up when Father Gapon himself appeared on the steps of the hall.
“Look, Pavel!” said my Shura, clutching my arm. “Look at Father Gapon and how handsome he is!”
I turned and in the cold saw a handsome man, his hair long and dark, his beard thick. But honestly he seemed pale. Nervous, too. Did he know, did he fear, what lay ahead? Perhaps… but just then no one gave a thought or a worry, for the air was too crisp, the golden domes of the nearby church too bright, our hopes too high. And, as Father Gapon moved toward the head of the crowd, we parted. Wearing not simply his long black robes but a chasuble-a sleeveless outer garment that I had never seen a priest wear anytime but at Mass-he passed right before us, and I watched several old women reach out and kiss the hem of his cloth.
“Bless you, Father!” one of them called.
“Thank you for helping!” sobbed another.
Suddenly Shura was grabbing my hand and pulling me along, urgently saying in a hushed voice, “Come on, Pavel, let’s go to the front of the crowd! Hurry! I want to be right in the lead so as to better see the Tsar!”
And, laughing, I let her pull me along after Father Gapon. The mass of people closed behind us, and soon we were up there near the head of the vast crowd, which numbered, they were saying, somewhere near 20,000 folk. And yet everyone was peaceful, not a word of dissent was heard anywhere, so united were we. Just to make certain that our good and religious intentions were perfectly clear, a great call went out for icons and other items of the church. Within minutes we were surrounded not just by men and women workers of every age, from young to old, but by large crosses held high, tall banners from a nearby church, huge icons, and glorious portraits of our Tsar Nikolai II, too.
In fact, a man in felt boots hurried by, calling, “Who wishes to carry an image of Otets Rodnoi, Batushka!”
“I do, I do!” shouted Shura.
And such it was that Shura was given a framed portrait of the Tsar, pulled right from the wall of Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall, to hold high and carry forth. And such it was, too, that shortly after eleven in the morning on Sunday, the 9th of January, 1905, we slowly started forward, this great mass of suffering humanity that was so full of love and hope for Tsar and Motherland.
We had not gone five steps when one man pulled his fur shapka from his head and began singing our great national anthem, “God Save the Tsar!” Immediately we all fell into dutiful song, and when we came to the line blessing our Tsar, we sang, “God Save Nikolai Aleksandrovich.” Along with our solemn voices came the pealing of church bells, and though I should have been, I wasn’t at all nervous, not even when I saw a large banner held aloft that read, “Soldiers, Do Not Fire Upon Your Brothers!” No, I wasn’t nervous, because I saw several policemen pull their hats from their own heads and cross themselves as we passed. And when we proceeded to sing “Save Thy People, O Lord, and Bless Thy Inheritance” these policemen began to sing, too. No, I was quite sure of it, there was nothing to fear. We were in God’s hands and, as if to prove it, yet another group of officers ran up the side of the procession and began to clear the way for us. They even turned away a few carriages that attempted to cross our path.
Oh, if only the Tsar had been waiting for us…
It wasn’t long at all before we reached the great Petergofskoye Highway and turned north. By this time Father Gapon himself was no longer in the front rank but just behind, surrounded by a handful of what appeared to be bodyguards, big men who kept close and tight rank around him. Shura and I were not but three or four people away from this group, and it wasn’t long before the Narva Triumphal Arch, built to welcome home the troops from their victory over Napoleon, came into view. But what caught my attention wasn’t the glorious copper arch or the copper chariot with six ponies atop. No, what seized my heart was the sight of kneeling troops, rifles at the ready, blocking our passage over the small bridge spanning the Tarakanovka River in front of the arch.
“Shura,” I muttered, “there are soldati ahead.”
Still holding the Tsar’s portrait aloft, my dear wife, along with the crowd, was now singing “Our Father” and seemed barely concerned. In fact, she and everyone else only began to sing louder. But it scared me, I confess, and a shiver went through my body when I saw behind the troops a line of cavalry-men mounted on horseback, their faces stern, their fur hats tall. Oh, dear Mother of God, I thought. All we had wished for was that our meager voices be heard by our rightful ruler, not that the Cossacks be brought in.
“Shura,” I said, taking my young pregnant wife by the arm, “perhaps we shouldn’t be here, perhaps we-”
“Don’t worry, Pavel!” she said, holding the portrait higher.
“But-”
“It’s all right. Trust me, no one would dare fire at a picture of the Tsar!”
Instinctively I started to slow, for like all peasants of Russia -serfs that we had so recently been-there was nothing I feared more than my master’s whip. But these stout men atop their horses did not bear whips. No, it was far worse, for at their sides were swords. But whatever the danger, there was no stopping our mighty procession now. Even though I tried to slow my pace, I could not. Indeed, the great mass of humanity seethed with excitement, pushing me forward faster and faster.
When we were but 300 paces away, the line of kneeling troops suddenly parted and the Cossacks came roaring out on their small, strong horses.
“Gik! Gik!” they cried as they spurred on their horses.
Thanks be to God, though, their swords were still not drawn, and yet a great shout arose from all of us, and our procession parted down the middle. It was through this empty alley that the Cossacks charged, their horses bellowing steam like dragons as they thundered across the trampled snow. Yes, we parted for the Cossacks, but we did not disband, we did not scatter down side streets, as I am sure was the desire of the soldiers.
Father Gapon, his voice shaking, bellowed, “Be brave, Brothers! Freedom or death!”
All of us stood in shock as we watched the Cossacks pass through the entire crowd and then, like a great eagle, circle back. Because we had not fled, an order was given. In one lightning move, the Cossacks drew their shashki-their famous swords-and came charging back faster than before.
“Gik! Gik!” they shouted.
It was a dazzling sight, these brutes on horseback, the silvery metal of their shashki glinting in the golden winter sun. We pulled back even more, and again there was no incident as they surged past, their voices whooping and their swords raised high. They charged back across the small bridge and disappeared behind the line of soldiers.
Immediately, almost instinctively, the great mass of us, so many thousands, rushed back into the street like floodwaters whooshing into a void. My heart was pounding like a locomotive, and though I knew I should be carrying my young pregnant wife out of the way, I couldn’t stop myself. We were great, we were mighty, we workers so desperate for a good life, and all of a sudden we were locking arms, one to the next, united in our desperation. The singing erupted from us all-what song I can’t even remember, something religious, to be sure-and faster than ever we poured forward, those behind pushing us in the front. When we were less than 200 paces from the line of kneeling soldiers, I heard it, the bugler giving the call to fire. But nothing happened. It came again, the sound trumpeting into the thin winter air. Then a third time, all to no avail, for we were all brothers and sisters, workers and soldiers alike. Finally, I heard the scream of an officer ordering his young men to shoot upon us. And fire they did, the dry snap of their bullets shattering the air. But the rifles that had been aimed directly at us were by then raised to the heavens, firing high overhead. That was the first volley. Then came another order, and the second volley likewise went into the air. And somehow we were running by then, all of us gathering power and courage, our icons and religious banners and certainly the image of the Tsar held high. And I remember looking at the kneeling soldiers, seeing the fear on their young fac
es. Boys, they were, brought in from some provincial town, Pskov perhaps. Terrified boys who, faced with this mob, lowered their guns and, this time following their orders, took near-point-blank aim.
Again, that dry snap, over and over.
An unbelievable wail rose from our procession, unified at first, then shattering into one scream here, another there. A man not ten paces in front of me suddenly fell to the ground, his religious banner tumbling and ripping to shreds underfoot. I tried to stop but could not, so great was the force of the masses behind us. Glancing over at Father Gapon, I saw the horror in his eyes, then saw two of his bodyguards, the ones right in front of him, stumble and fall. And right above my Shura something exploded into a million pieces and she screamed… she screamed as the portrait of Tsar-Batushka was riddled with bullets.
“Shura!” I cried to the heavens.
There came another volley and yet another as the soldiers fired straight at us, and we all fell to the ground nearly as one, man atop woman, atop grandfather, atop child. Knocked down, I dug into the snowy street as the shots were fired over and over until their clips were completely spent.
At long last the guns were quiet. For the briefest of moments there was nothing. Then came something awful, wailing and sobbing that bubbled up all around me. Lifting my head, I looked around and saw a carpet of bodies. A young girl screamed to the heavens as she reached for her trampled mother. An old man tried to get up, stumbled, and fell again. Turning and looking back, I saw many people now fleeing, cutting into the side streets and running for their lives.
But my dear wife was just lying there, facedown and within reach, and I touched her, calling, “Shura! Shura! Come, we must run away! Get up!”
I scrambled to my feet as best I could and reached out, pulling at her arm. But why was she making no movement, why was she making no effort to get away? Why was she not rising?
“Shura!” I yelled. “Shura, get up!”
It was then that I saw that the snow in which my dear wife was lying was no longer white. No, it was a hot, steaming crimson, and she lay there in it, a rapidly growing sea of red snow, and I realized that I, too, was standing in it, a deep puddle of her blood.
And behind me a man cried like a child, muttering, “God has abandoned us and so… so has the Tsar!”
Chapter 9 ELLA
Sobbing, one of my ladies came in and told me the horrid news, and as soon as I heard it I rushed from my boudoir. Wasting not a moment, I scurried down the grand staircase, my dress dragging behind me, and burst through the doors of Sergei’s cabinet. Hurrying in, I found him not at his desk but gazing out a window at the Kremlin grounds, his hands clasped behind his back. Standing a few steps away was the military governor of the city, our very distinguished Count Shuvalov.
“Oh, Sergei!” I exclaimed. “Salvos were fired upon the marchers-I’m told many were killed!”
“Yes,” he muttered slowly. “Count Shuvalov himself has just brought me the news. I’m told nearly a thousand have died.”
“Oh, Lord!” I gasped, crossing myself. “Were they just workers, or-”
“Women and children, too.”
“No…!” I said, bursting into tears.
Sergei turned around then, his face paler than I had ever seen, his eyes red, for we both sensed what this meant for the country and what darkness it would bring.
He said, “Come, child, we must pray for the dead.”
We did just that. Leaving the Count, we headed directly to the attached church, where we were on our knees the rest of the afternoon and well into the night, offering blessings for the newly departed.
Sadly, only later was it proven that the vague rumors were actually true, that the workers had meant the Emperor no harm, that they had merely intended to gather at the Palace and present him with a petition requesting his help. Just think if it had been so… if the Tsar had met directly with his lowest, neediest subjects! Just think what wonderful things we could have done for our beloved country!
Instead, all went from bad to worse, and the strikes spread like a terrible fire, leaping from factory to factory.
Chapter 10 PAVEL
That was how my path started, right then and there on that Bloody Sunday as I reached for my beautiful Shura and found her lifeless. That was the day my sweet wife and unborn child died and that was the day the Tsar died, too. From then on I dedicated my life to revenge… and swore my life and soul to the Revolution. Day and night my cry was: Workers of the World, Unite! Down with the Autocracy! All Power to the People! So many innocents were killed that day, which proved to be the dress rehearsal for the Great October Revolution twelve years later. Yes, for decades if not a century Russia had been a boiling cauldron just waiting to explode, and explode it did with vicious power.
It was true, in a matter of moments all that I lived for was cruelly taken away, and there was no bottom to the depth of my pain. I do remember collapsing in the red snow and sobbing as I never had, I do remember a Cossack coming by and beating me with the flat of his sword, but… but suffice to say that, I don’t know, three or four days later I found myself hiding in an attic with a group of revolutionaries, for my transition to hatred was just that quick.
Of course, Father Gapon survived as well. But his bodyguards did not. Those men who had volunteered to protect the priest did just that, acting as a human shield and taking the bullets and falling for the Revolution. If only I’d thought to do likewise, to stand before my wife and protect her. But I didn’t, and to this day I still don’t understand how those bullets could have missed me, how I was not even grazed, and how my Shura, standing right next to me, could have been killed so quickly and cleanly. But that was what happened and that was how I lost my faith, for if there had been a God he would have spared her and our unborn baby and taken me instead. Or, perhaps best, taken all three of us together.
As for Gapon… within moments after the shooting had stopped a group of his ardent supporters rushed over and whisked him away. I vaguely remember seeing this, somehow remember watching as they hustled him down a lane, shaved his familiar beard, pulled his priestly garments from his body, then dressed him as an ordinary worker and sent him scurrying into hiding. I didn’t see him again or cross his path for almost two years until that one day when he was murdered in a dacha outside the capital. Hung from a hook, he was. No, it wasn’t the Tsar’s secret agents who did that. It was our people, revolutionaries who were so displeased with him for his betrayals, for it turned out that all along he’d had secret contacts with the police. I actually helped kill him, and I was glad to do so: four of us hung him from a hook on the wall, and when the hook proved not high enough from the floor, me and another comrade pulled on Gapon’s shoulders until he was strangled. The police didn’t find his body for a whole month.
With the murder of my own wife, I turned freely to hatred and seized the opportunity to murder any Romanov I could. We were determined to get rid of our oppressors and their capitalist dogs, we were determined to turn a page in history and make sure there was no going back. And that was how and why of course we decided to go after the Grand Duke Sergei, that bastard who had ruled Moscow with an iron fist for, what, some fourteen years. There was no question, he was the worst Governor-General that Moscow had ever seen. After all, it was he who ran the Zhidki out of town, and he who made those few Zhid boys who stayed in the city to register as stable boys and the few Zhidka girls as prostitutes.
That was how, too, I ended up in Moscow a few weeks later. I traveled there to participate in the incredibly glorious plans to murder the Grand Duke Sergei. Within days of Bloody Sunday it was decided in the highest echelons of the revolutionary committee that, first off, the most reactionary and hated of the Romanovs should be executed. A kind of trial was held, and it was determined by all that the Grand Duke Sergei should meet his death. I think, actually, that after the events of Bloody Sunday not just me but the masses as a whole were crying out for revenge. On top of Russia sat the disgustingly ric
h Tsar, beneath him came those 1000 or so conniving titled families, then the merchants and little bourgeoisie people. Finally at the bottom came us, hungry peasants and weary workers who made up the biggest part of Russia, some said as many as 80%. We meant to change all that, we did, by whatever means necessary. We meant to turn society completely upside down and completely reverse the table of ranks so that we were on top and Nikolai the Bloody and his greedy family and all the others were smashed down there at the bottom beneath us. I volunteered to join these terrorists, and so some three weeks after the murder of my wife and unborn child, I traveled to Moscow and joined this secret group, which was determined to kill the Grand Duke Sergei Aleksandrovich.
And if in the process of killing that despicable oppressor we also killed his beautiful bride, well, so be it. What did I care? Nothing, that was what.
My heart had turned to cinder.
Chapter 11 ELLA
As I stood in front of my tall, triple mirror in my dressing room, I was not especially pleased with what I saw. Was the yellow silk dress, which I myself had designed, just the right one for tonight? Were the sleeves tailored snugly enough? Was the collar, which was decorated with seed pearls and petite diamonds, too extravagant in detail? Or was it the color, was it somehow all wrong?
Turning to my dressing maids, I asked, “What do you think, girls?”
“Lovely, Your Highness,” replied Luba, a trim gray-haired woman who had served me since my marriage some twenty years past.
The Romanov Bride Page 4
