by Gale Sears
There was a slight pressure on her shoulder and she looked over to the servant. “Agnes?” Why was Agnes Lindlof on the barge? Natasha sat up and squinted at her friend. “Agnes?” She was surprised by the gravelly timbre of her voice. She cleared her throat and pushed her hair away from her face. She heard distant singing and her disorientation lingered. “What are you doing here?”
Agnes took her arm and helped her to stand. “First, let’s get you awake.” She led her to the window and opened it. A rush of cold damp air hit Natasha in the face and made her gasp. The singing intensified and the two friends looked down into the courtyard. Several dozen soldiers were singing a song of the revolution with voices filled with passion and power.
“There is no more beautiful sound than when we Russians sing together,” Agnes said. “It breaks the heart.”
Natasha nodded slowly. Her senses were returning and with the awareness came a cacophony of noise that beat against her eardrums. A dull ache banded around her head and she reached up to rub her temples.
“Here, sit down, Natasha Ivanovna, before you fall down,” Agnes directed, helping her back to her chair.
“Actually, I need to go to the water closet and splash some water on my face.”
“Good idea,” Agnes said, maneuvering her toward the door. “It looks like you haven’t slept in days.”
“I haven’t,” Natasha answered. “Perhaps an hour or two, but no more.” She gave her friend a quizzical look. “What are you doing here, Agnes?”
“Mother sent me with sweet bread. We’re worried about you. She said she saw you leave your house at four o’clock in the morning.”
Natasha nodded. “But how did you get here?”
“Streetcar. This is the end of the line. I used to go to school here, you know. Of course, now that the Bolsheviks have taken over, the white marble floors are caked with mud.”
“Agnes . . .”
“There are still some of the class placards over the doors, but everything else has changed.”
Natasha’s head throbbed. “Yes. Yes, I know.” She looked at Agnes’s bourgeois attire. “But what I meant was, how did you get in here to see me? The guards are being very strict.”
Agnes smiled. “I must not look dangerous.”
A woman, carrying a bolt of red fabric, pushed past them with a surly look and a grunt.
“Besides,” Agnes continued, belatedly stepping aside, “it’s chaos—people coming and going in a mad rush. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“And probably won’t again,” Natasha said. “We’re preparing for something big.”
“The Second Congress of Soviets?” Agnes asked.
Natasha shook her head. “We’ve heard rumors that the Bolsheviks will soon take control of the telephones and telegraphs, and the train stations.”
Agnes stared at her. “Take control?”
“Shhh. I can’t say more. I don’t know for sure. I just know they’ve had me writing leaflets and flyers for days.”
Agnes nodded. “Everyone on the street is reading some sort of paper—devouring every bit of information.”
Natasha lowered her voice to a whisper and brought a paper from her pocket. “This is the last statement they had me write.” In a conspiratorial tone, she read it aloud. “‘Citizens! The Provisional Government is deposed. State power has passed into the organ of the Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies.’”
“What?” Agnes said loudly.
They stepped out into the hallway and were caught in a press of humanity: Red Guards stood tense and awkward, waiting for their next orders; typists ran from one office to another carrying paper; members of different soviets stood arguing, while couriers entered and left the building without bothering to remove their hats or wipe the mud from their boots.
Agnes clutched at Natasha’s arm. “The insurrection is happening now?”
“Shhh,” Natasha scolded. “That’s why I’m surprised they let you in here. Things are moving very quickly, and—” Her words were knocked out of her as a young woman came hurrying from a side hall and smashed into her. The two fell onto the floor.
“Natasha!” Agnes yelled.
A knot of people crowded around, shouting and swearing, as the two women were lifted to their feet.
“What’s the idea, comrade?” a Red Guard barked as he held onto the frantic girl.
She seemed unaware of the chaos she’d caused. “Where’s Lenin? Where’s Trotsky?” she screamed. “I have to see them right away!” Her eyes bulged from her head and she gasped for breath.
“Calm down. Calm down, little comrade,” the soldier said. “You don’t want to pass out.”
“You . . . you don’t understand!” the girl cried. “I’ve run . . . run all the way from the newspaper building. The editor sent me.” She was crying in earnest, and several people patted her on the back and shoulder.
“Get the commissar!” Natasha called, stepping forward.
The girl glanced at Natasha. “Thank you. I’m sorry I hit into you . . . it’s just that . . .”
“Yes, it’s all right,” Natasha said dismissively. “Now, what’s this about the newspaper building?”
The girl put her hands on her knees and sucked air into her lungs. “The editor sent me to find Lenin or Trotsky. They . . . they need to know . . .” She ran out of air again.
“Something about Pravda? Something about the Bolshevik paper?” Natasha demanded.
The girl did not respond.
The crowd parted as Trotsky approached, his dark wavy hair unkempt and his clothing rumpled. The girl’s head jerked up, a mixture of fear and determination on her face. “Comrade Trotsky! Oh, Comrade Trotsky, I’m just a typist, but no one else could come. Should I tell you or Comrade Lenin?”
Trotsky smiled at her. “Well, Lenin is addressing the assembly at the moment, so I think you should tell me.”
The girl wiped tears away with the sleeve of her coat. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to do. I’m just a typist.”
“What is your name?”
“Yelena.”
“It’s all right, Yelena,” he said gently. “Tell me what has happened?”
“Kerensky sent guards—Junkers . . . you know . . . the young soldiers from the military schools, and some other soldiers, not as young.” She looked around at the pressing crowd of people.
“Yes, good. Go on,” Trotsky encouraged.
Natasha was amazed at Trotsky’s patience. All she wanted to do was wring the information out of the silly typist.
“They have shut down our newspaper! The soldiers scattered the print, tied up some people, and sealed the door.” She looked at the commissar and began crying again. “They smashed my typewriter.”
Natasha felt Agnes take her hand as everyone privy to the scene went quiet. All eyes were on Trotsky. He did not move—he did not speak for what seemed a very long time. Finally he turned to the soldier. “Lieutenant, find me the head of the Litovsky regiment and send him to my office.” He turned to one of his stenographers. “Bring me the forms I need.” He looked around at the waiting faces. “We will answer this outrage. The last remnants of the fetishism of authority is about to crumble to dust.”
The typist squared her slight shoulders. “If you send out a guard against the Junkers, Commissar, we workers will bring out the paper!”
Trotsky looked at her intently. “Yes, comrade, the workers will not be stopped. Come with me while I fill out the needed forms.” He took her by the arm and turned from the group. “Insurrection must be documented.”
The gathering dispersed as people went back to the urgent business they’d abandoned. There was a smattering of elevated voices, and several people ran past to deliver messages, but Natasha Ivanovna did not move.
; Agnes shook her arm. “Natasha, what is it?”
“Kerensky and his government have just lit the match of revolution.”
Agnes started. “What? Kerensky? Why would he do that?”
“He doesn’t realize he’s done it. It’s just another of his blunders.”
“Another?”
Natasha led Agnes to a less crowded area of the hallway. “Sergey Antonovich told me yesterday he’d heard rumors that the Provisional Government plans to prosecute the leaders of the Bolshevik movement. They’ve also ordered the military cruiser Aurora out of the Neva River—out to sea.”
Agnes’s frown deepened. “Father says Kerensky doesn’t trust the sailors’ loyalty.”
“He shouldn’t.”
Agnes bit her bottom lip. “What do you think the sailors will do?”
“I think they will do whatever the Revolutionary Committee tells them to do. The workers at the Bolshevik newspaper and the sailors on the Aurora are the proletariat—the people, Agnes, the common masses—and they’re standing against the edicts of an unwise government. Since Kerensky has taken the offensive, any action taken by us will be in defense. We will not seem the aggressors.” Natasha felt a chill of enthusiasm and apprehension run through her body. “In his attempt to suppress us, Kerensky has lit the match.”
Agnes leaned back against the wall. “I don’t feel well, Natasha Ivanovna.”
Natasha turned quickly to her. “You must get out of here, Agnes. You must get home as fast as you can.” She began pulling her down the hallway.
“But what about you, Natasha? Why don’t you come home with me?”
Natasha kept walking. “I can’t, Agnes. I have work to do.”
“I’m frightened, Natasha. I don’t understand any of this.”
“I know, little squirrel. Most citizens don’t really understand what’s happening. Things will be difficult for awhile, and then it will be better. Our lives will be so much better.”
They reached the front door and stopped. Agnes’s eyes filled with tears. “Will they, Natasha? Will our lives be better?”
“Yes. Now go. You can still catch the streetcar.”
“Oh, wait!” Agnes reached into her satchel. “I almost forgot to give you the bread.” She handed it over and took Natasha’s hand. “I want to go back to when we were girls—sharing riddles and braiding each other’s hair.”
Natasha nodded. “Yes, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? Now go. Be safe.”
Natasha watched as her friend walked through the courtyard, past the soldiers standing around their warming fires, past the machine guns and artillery, and out through the front gate.
As she turned and raced to her office, Natasha Ivanovna knew there would be no going back.
Notes
1. The song Natasha hears in her dream is the Socialist revolutionary song “The Internationale.”
2. The pamphlet written by Natasha concerning the takeover by the Bolsheviks is based on an actual notice written by Lenin and distributed the night of the storming of the Winter Palace.
3. Pravda: “Truth,” the main Bolshevik newspaper.
4. Before the Bolshevik revolution, Russia calculated its time according to the Gregorian calendar, which was thirteen days behind the Julian calendar. In March 1918, the Bolsheviks converted all their calendars to the Julian system. To avoid confusion I have calculated all dates according to the Julian calendar, with one exception—I kept the date for the Bolshevik revolution as October 24, 1917. Most people are used to referring to this insurrection as Red October.
Chapter Thirteen
Petrograd
October 25, 1917
“The cruiser Aurora has fired a blank shot at the Winter Palace!” Dmitri Borisovitch yelled as he ran into the Smolny. “And now the sailors are firing artillery from the Peter and Paul Fortress! They are bringing down Kerensky!”
Natasha Ivanovna flew out of her office, mixing with the throng of people pouring into the hallway and out the front door.
Dmitri saw her and rushed to her side. “Comrade Gavrilova! The revolution begins! Come! Come with me! Sergey Antonovich sent me to get you. We’re in a truck. We’re going to the Winter Palace!”
There was a distant boom, and the people already on the front steps roared out their consent.
Dmitri and Natasha emerged into the courtyard and the slap of cold air made her gasp. “I’ve forgotten my coat.”
“Here, take mine,” Dmitri Borisovitch said, stripping off his coat midstride, and handing it to her.
“But—”
“I have my jacket. Don’t worry.” His face shone in the firelight. “Besides, who could be cold on a night like this?”
Natasha shrugged on the coat without slowing. She was determined not to lose Dmitri in the crowd. As they ran through the courtyard, she noticed that most of the Red Guards were gone. Only a few remained to protect the entrance of the building and the strategists inside. She could imagine Trotsky, Lenin, Marie Spirodonova, and some of the other leading Bolsheviks calling on the telephones, yelling to couriers, bending over maps, and sending telegrams to orchestrate the unfolding drama; ordering the bridges to be kept down so that the workers from outlying areas could march into the center of the city to fortify the cause; calling for increased security at the already taken train stations, postal offices, and utility departments; and sending soldiers to storm the Winter Palace.
“Here! This way!”
She heard Sergey’s voice before she saw him.
Dmitri yanked her arm and they turned left toward a large truck. Sergey was standing in the truck bed with Nicholai Lvovitch. The flaps of the canvas covering had been tied back and Natasha could see a few other people in the truck bed’s dark interior. They seemed to be sitting on piles of paper. One man looked familiar—one of the typesetters from the printing office—while another looked perfectly foreign with wild, dark hair and a long, black cloak. The truck lurched forward and Natasha saw Nicholai catch Sergey before he fell.
“Come on! Come on!” Sergey yelled as he righted himself. “It’s moving!”
Natasha and Dmitri ran serpentinely past several people and jumped a small bonfire in their eagerness not to be left behind. The truck was moving at stops and starts to avoid hitting workers who ran heedlessly out into the street. As Natasha and Dmitri neared the lumbering vehicle, Sergey and Nicholai reached down their hands for them. They pulled the pair up over the back gate and into the truck. Immediately Sergey brought Natasha into a crushing embrace.
“I can’t believe it! Can you believe it?” he yelled.
The truck lurched forward again and the four friends dropped quickly to their knees.
“What have you seen?” Natasha asked. “Has the Winter Palace been taken?”
“Yes! Yes, I think so,” Sergey answered, putting his arm around her. “On our way here we saw hundreds of guards moving in that direction.”
Someone in the rear of the truck bed shoved papers in their direction. “Here, comrades,” came a disembodied voice. “Pass these out to the people.”
It was near midnight and darkness had crouched in the streets since four o’clock, yet in the flash of passing lamplight, Natasha could see that the flyers carried the message she’d written from the Military Revolutionary Committee. Citizens! The Provisional Government is deposed! She looked up quickly to find Sergey smiling at her.
“Yes, comrade, those words will be read by thousands of happy workers this night.”
“Well done, Comrade Gavrilova!” Dmitri and Nicholai yelled, grabbing handfuls of the missives and shaking them in the air.
Natasha felt color come into her cheeks and she turned her face out to the dark night. Even with the lateness of the hour, she noted that the streets were crowded—some people still out from the supper hour, while
others had obviously been dragged out of their homes by the sound of cannon fire.
As the truck rumbled down side streets and onto Nevsky Prospect, the four friends scattered the leaflets from the back of the truck. Some people scrambled over the cobbles, fighting for copies, while others snatched them out of the air.
As they crossed over the Ekaterininsky canal, the truck was forced to stop. A burly sailor came to the back carrying a torch, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder. “Sorry, comrades, the road is blocked here. If you wish to go on you must walk, and you must have a reason for entrance. You must also have the proper passes.”
“Of course! Of course, comrade!” Sergey said enthusiastically. “We work with the Military Revolutionary Committee,” Sergey said. He grabbed a handful of leaflets. “We were sent to hand these out.” He shoved a paper at the big man.
A grin spread across the sailor’s face as he read. “Well, they certainly had faith that we’d do our job, didn’t they?”
Sergey and Nicholai jumped from the back of the truck and lowered the back gate. As the others exited, Sergey held Natasha around the waist and helped her down. They moved to the front of the truck and were confronted with a barricade and a guard of twenty Kronstadt sailors.
“Did the Red Guards do this?” Sergey asked, indicating the barricade.
The guards smiled and shook their heads. “No. The Junkers put this up to stop the revolution,” one of the sailors quipped. “You may as well brush aside the tide with a broom.”
The other sailors laughed.
“May I take your picture?” Dmitri Borisovitch asked, bringing his American-made Kodak camera from his bag.
“I don’t see why not,” one of the sailors answered. “I’ve never had a picture taken. Will it hurt?”
One of his fellows smacked him on the back. “Your village is so small, it doesn’t even have a name—right, Boris Alexayvich?”
His comrades laughed.
“Everyone move together a bit,” Dmitri instructed.
The sailors did the best they could while still being diligent to their office.
