by Gale Sears
The young guard chuckled. “I’m well, thank you, little mother.”
The babushka’s face became serious. “And the tsar—have you seen him?”
“No, we haven’t seen him. They’ve sent him away.”
She frowned. “Who sent him away? This new man—this Kerensky?” She crossed herself. “He’s a devil.” She spit. “May he come to a bad end.”
The Cossack straightened. “Now, little mother, you must be careful what you say.”
Weathered fingers reached out to touch his sleeve. “You must try to bring the tsar back. Everything is bad without him.” Her rheumy eyes filled with tears. “I don’t understand what’s happening anymore. Mean soldiers yell at me when I try to go into the church to pray. They call me names.”
The other Cossack soldier looked around to their retreating comrades. “Come on, leave her. We have to go.”
The young soldier seemed reluctant to abandon the ragged woman. As he backed away, he bowed to her. “I will try to find the tsar, little mother.” He turned and hurried after his companion.
The woman crossed herself and put her prayer hands to her forehead. Agnes watched with pity as the babushka hobbled toward the bonfire to find some warmth.
Agnes looked up at her father. “It makes me sad. I keep thinking of the beautiful prayer Elder Lyman gave in the Summer Garden.”
“You were only eight.” He touched her cheek. “You remember it?”
“Yes, much of it, and we’ve talked enough about it over the years. Mostly I remember how it made me feel. I felt that God was aware of us. That He loved the Russian people.”
Mr. Lindlof nodded. “That hasn’t changed, my sweet girl.”
“But Elder Lyman prayed that missionaries would come. He promised that they’d come to preach the gospel.”
“Perhaps certain freedoms have to be in place before that can be accomplished.”
“And do you think that can happen under a Soviet government?”
Mr. Lindlof shook his head. “No. I’m afraid the Soviets will leave God out of their plans.”
Agnes grunted. “I don’t understand politics. Even among the Socialists there are different groups, each wanting different things. I’m sure God doesn’t like the chaos and contention.”
“I’m sure He doesn’t.”
“So who will ever be able to unravel the political mess?”
Johan Lindlof didn’t answer her question. He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a slight hug. “Let’s go home. Your mother said she was making apple cake.”
“How did she manage that?”
Johan Lindlof smiled. “Didn’t I tell you? She knows magic.”
* * *
Natasha had gotten used to the din—the constant buzzing of voices, the feet walking in the hallways of the Smolny Institute, the discussions and arguments pouring from other offices. She had even learned to block out the hum and rattle of the sewing machines that occupied the room in which she worked. Her small desk sat twenty feet away from them and next to a lovely coped window, which provided sufficient light for her to write even on cloudy days. The electric lights were turned on from dusk to midnight and during the day only in an emergency. She’d been given a handful of candles, but at five rubles each, she rarely thought of lighting one.
A typewriter sat neglected by the side of her desk. She had told the supply committee that she’d never learned to use one and preferred to write with paper and pencil. Nevertheless, she had arrived at work one morning to find the odd contraption sitting smugly on her desk. She’d planned to take it back to the supply room, but hadn’t found the time. Perhaps someday she’d try to learn how to use it, but the men who did the typesetting told her they liked her writing and could easily read every word, so the typewriter sat on the floor, gathering dust.
“Natasha!”
She looked up from her scribbling to see Sergey Antonovich striding toward her. He held a pamphlet in the air and waved it as he approached. Several of the girls stopped sewing and watched his every movement. Only when he knelt down at Natasha’s side did they pull their eyes back to the red cloth at their sewing machines.
Sergey had his hair tied back at the nape of his neck, which made his brown eyes the dominant feature of his face. He was looking at her with such admiration that it made her blush. “Oh, my friend! My dear, dear comrade! I have just come from the printers with your latest work.” He took one of her hands. “It is brilliant! Brilliant! What beautiful propaganda!” He slapped the pamphlet down on her desk, put his hands on either side of her face, and kissed her hard on the mouth.
She was so stunned by his impulsive act that she did not pull away. She had never been kissed like this before and she figured Sergey’s passion for her work was what made his lips so warm and his hands tighten on the sides of her face. He pulled away slightly, grasping her hair, and breathing deeply. She was breathing deeply too.
“Oh, Natasha Ivanovna,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” He looked at her and stroked her cheek. “It’s just that I’m captivated by you—your brilliance and your beauty.”
Natasha noticed suddenly that the room had gone very quiet. She was embarrassed and angry as she imagined the seamstresses gawking and giggling at the private scene. She turned to glare at them, surprised to see they weren’t looking at her and Sergey at all, but were staring at the door.
Natasha turned to look. “Oh, no!” She stood quickly, bumping an array of items off her desk.
Sergey stood too. “Commissar Trotsky!”
Leon Trotsky stood smiling in the doorway. It was not an expression he wore often. Usually he was intense and preoccupied. He chuckled and walked calmly to one of the seamstresses and laid his hand on the sewing machine. The girl bowed her head.
“Ah, comrade, none of that,” he said. “We are all equal here.” She looked up at him and smiled. “That’s better.” He picked up the side of the banner she was sewing and let the smooth red fabric run through his fingers. “You do beautiful work.”
“Thank you, Commissar. The sewing machines are good.”
Trotsky smiled. “Yes. We must write the Singer Sewing Company and thank them for such a wonderful invention. And what will your banner say?”
The girl sat straighter in her chair. “Workers of the World Unite!”
His look turned reflective. “And do you believe that’s possible?”
The girl hesitated. “It’s a lofty goal, Commissar.”
He nodded. “Lofty? Yes.” He let the fabric fall back onto the floor. “Well, we shall just have to work for it.” He turned. “Like our Comrade Gavrilova.” He walked toward her.
Natasha had never seen Comrade Trotsky up close. He and his pretty wife lived in one room on the top floor of the building. Sergey had been there once and told her it was very meager, portioned off like a poor artist’s studio—two cots and a cheap little dresser on one side, and a desk and three wooden chairs on the other. The few times she had seen Trotsky in the hallways it was at a distance and he was always surrounded by people. She knew it was because everyone was too intimidated by Lenin to approach him, but they could go to Trotsky with every small detail and problem.
The commissar reached out his hand and she took it, looking past his thick glasses to his dark eyes. “Comrade Gavrilova,” he said, shaking her hand and returning her look with interest. “I came to congratulate you on your stirring sentiments, but I see that Comrade Vershinin has rushed here ahead of me.”
Natasha blushed and Sergey smiled.
“Truly, comrade, it is a great piece of writing. I especially like the part where you compare Kerensky’s government to a chicken that continues to run about the courtyard even though its head has been cut off. It struggles and it fights, because it doesn’t know it’s dead.” He nodded at her. “Yes, very good. The Provisi
onal Government does not speak for the proletariat—they are merely puppets of the bourgeoisie, and so the workers have left them and banded behind the promise of the Bolsheviks. We know that Kerensky will stab at us, but that will only make us stronger.”
Natasha felt the determination in his words.
Trotsky continued. “Even though Kerensky is a lawyer, he’s a fool. And so the Provisional Government runs about with no head and no support.” He removed the pamphlet from his pocket and tapped it on his hand. “Yes, it is a great image—an image that the country peasants will well understand.”
Natasha started. “Country?”
“Why, yes. We are sending thousands of copies out into the countryside—the small towns and villages. We Bolsheviks are strong in Petrograd and Moscow, and our message is understood by the soldiers, but we must win the hearts of all the people.” He leaned closer to them. “And when our revolution has swept away petty selfishness—when men’s hearts are changed—we will work together to build a new order.” He placed his hand on Sergey’s shoulder. “You two will be part of that. We are in this together. You cannot tie a knot with one hand.” He looked into both their faces. “A great orator and a great writer? Yes, we will use you. We will see that you are kept very busy.” He shook both their hands.
“Thank you, Comrade Trotsky,” Sergey said, his voice layered with gratitude and pride. “We are waiting for the insurrection!”
Trotsky looked at him intently. “Not much longer, comrade. Many plans are in motion.”
“So everything is set?” Sergey asked anxiously.
“Set?” Trotsky shook his head. “It is the fog of revolution, Comrade Vershinin, and I think you will see that the outcome will surprise the victors as much as it will stun the defeated. No, things are never set, but we have heard some good news.” He looked at Natasha. “You see, I understand that our friend Lenin has defied Kerensky and has snuck back into town from Finland.”
“What?” Sergey blurted out.
Trotsky smiled and put his finger to his lips. “I hear he’s in disguise. Our secret.” He noticed the typewriter on the floor. “You don’t like your typewriter, Comrade Gavrilova?”
Natasha shrugged. “I don’t know how to use it.”
Trotsky laughed. “Me either. I was writing everything by hand and getting crankier and crankier until the Committee told me I had to get a stenographer. Now, I have two to keep up with me!” He turned to leave, and then turned back. “Oh, Comrade Vershinin,” he said gravely. “Don’t distract Comrade Gavrilova too much. The revolution needs her.”
Sergey nodded and relaxed. “Yes, Commissar. I’ll try to remember.”
Trotsky raised a hand to the seamstresses and left the room.
The sewing stopped as the girls gathered excitedly together to talk.
“He knows our names,” Sergey Antonovich said. “And he has taken a special interest in you, Natasha Ivanovna.” He pulled his gaze from the door to stare at her.
For some reason the thought was unsettling and Natasha knelt quickly to retrieve the things she’d knocked off her desk. Sergey joined her.
“Now that I’ve kissed you, though, I may find it impossible to leave you alone to write.”
Natasha looked over at him, expecting to find a smirk on his face, but his expression was one of complete sincerity. She stood and dumped the articles onto her desk, making a show of arranging them.
Sergey Antonovich placed papers and a book on the other side of where she was working. “I’m sorry, Natasha Ivanovna. If you’d rather, I won’t kiss you again. Perhaps you don’t care for me, like . . .”
She looked at him straight on. “I never said that.”
Sergey moved to her side and kissed her lightly at the corner of her mouth. She felt her body warm with his touch.
“When your work is done, let me take you out to supper.”
Natasha smiled at him. “That’s rather extravagant of you.”
“I’ve been saving some money.” He touched her hair.
“Hmm. There’s only one problem—my work for the revolution is never done.”
“Nor is mine,” Sergey agreed, “but we must eat once in a while.”
“True. All right, give me two hours.”
He ran his hand down her arm and picked up her pamphlet.
Now that she’d expressed her mutual interest, it seemed that Sergey Antonovich could not stop touching her. Natasha was overwhelmed by a feeling of belonging.
Sergey backed away from her, his eyes never leaving her face. “Two hours.” He held up the pamphlet and announced to the room, “This is absolutely brilliant, comrades! You must read it!”
When he was gone, Natasha tried to maintain an air of efficiency and detachment, but her body kept remembering Sergey’s touch and her mind kept exalting over what Commissar Trotsky had said. He had encouraged her writing and indicated that she and Sergey would be important to the revolution. From each according to their ability. To each according to their need!
For some reason the sentiment sounded hollow and her euphoria retreated. She continued straightening her desk, trying to ignore other words and phrases that kept jumping into her reasoning. She stacked the papers that Sergey Antonovich had retrieved and set the blue book on top—the blue book from Agnes’s father: Articles of Faith. Trotsky had talked so powerfully about the government of the proletariat sweeping away petty selfishness—of changing men’s hearts—of building a new order. In his words she could feel the force of the revolution. The Bolsheviks had inflamed the hearts of the workers in Petrograd and Moscow to insurrection and there was no turning back. How often had she heard Lenin and Trotsky preach to the proletariat that their brother workers in Germany, Hungary, and France—indeed all the workers of Europe—would throw off bourgeois capitalism and establish a new order—a united order? And religion, which had for so long dominated the minds of the common man with meaningless ritual and empty hope, would give way to true brotherhood and caring.
Her fingers pressed into the book. Yes! Yes, that would be the way of things. Surely that is the right way. She reached up and touched a tear on her cheek. Why was she crying? How foolish. Into her head came clearly the words of Agnes’s father, “You cannot change a man’s nature or behavior by outside means. There must be a change of a man’s heart, and only God can do that.”
Only God can do that.
Natasha strode to the window and shoved it open, taking in deep breaths of cold air. She gritted her teeth and fought against the feeling that somehow those words had meaning—somehow those words were true.
Notes
1. The double-headed eagle was the insignia of the Romanov family who ruled Russia for three hundred years. Just weeks before his abdication on March 14, 1917, Tsar Nicholas II was cheered by crowds of adoring subjects in Petrograd as they celebrated the 300-year anniversary of Romanov rule.
After the abdication of Tsar Nicholas II, the Socialists took great delight in tearing down any plaque or insignia of the Romanov dynasty and burning them in a public demonstration of disgust. I placed Agnes and her father passing by one such rally where royal objects are being burned.
2. Russia is a huge country. It is the only country to span two continents—Europe and Asia. It crosses eleven time zones, and in 1917, was home to approximately 150 million people. The ideas of the socialists had been slowly filtering to outlying areas, and soviets (councils) were being established in many cities, towns, and even villages. The All-Russian Congress of Soviets was a meeting in Petrograd of a sizable number of heads of soviets to discuss issues and take votes on which of the many socialist parties would chart the course and take over the reins of government. The Bolsheviks overthrew the Provisional Government the day before the meeting of the Congress and declared themselves the party in power.
3. Leon Trotsky was a leader i
n the socialist movement in Russia, and head of the Petrograd soviet. An intense advocate of the ideals of socialism, Trotsky stood side by side with Vladimir Illyich Lenin in bringing the Bolsheviks to power. He was appointed to be the Foreign Affairs Commissar, and later the commander of the Red Army and Commissar of War. After Lenin’s death in 1924, Trotsky was embroiled in a power struggle with the ruthless Joseph Stalin. Stalin used his position as General Secretary of the Communist Party to eliminate all rivals. Trotsky was exiled. In 1940 he was murdered in Mexico City by a Stalinist agent.
4. In July 1917 there were Socialist demonstrations in Petrograd against Alexander Kerensky and his Provisional Government’s continued support of Russia’s involvement in the war. Many Bolshevik leaders were arrested, including Leon Trotsky. Lenin also wanted to be arrested so he could challenge the government in a public trial, but his Bolshevik colleagues, fearing that he would be assassinated in jail, convinced him to go into hiding. Lenin eventually escaped to Helsinki, Finland. On October 20, he returned in disguise to a Petrograd suburb where, from a secret location, he helped orchestrate and drive the revolution.
Chapter Twelve
Petrograd
October 24, 1917
Natasha laid her head on her desk and let her hand drop to her side. She flexed her fingers and stretched her back, attempting to ease the cramp that had settled there an hour ago. Even with all the noise surrounding her, her mind began to drift, conjuring images of magical cows, birch trees, and barges floating down the Neva River filled with treasures from the Winter Palace. She sat on one of the barges watching the dark water flow away beneath her. She wore a crown, and a servant in a blue coat adorned with gold buttons offered her a cup of tea. She took it and the bold gentleman sat down beside her and began singing. His voice was strong and low and she felt an ache of emotion at the back of her throat. She hummed with him as he sang.
“Then comrades come rally
And the last fight let us face.
The Internationale
Unites the human race.”
