by Gale Sears
They crossed the bridge over the Moscow River and for the first time on their journey together the driver was quiet. When they reached the other side, he let out a sigh and crossed himself.
“Are you all right?” Natasha asked.
“It’s the place where my friend died during the fighting. They found his body on the riverbank.”
“I’m sorry,” Natasha replied.
The driver waved his hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. “Be afraid to live, little beauty, but do not be afraid to die.” They came to the east side of the Kremlin wall and suddenly the little man’s jollity returned. “So, this is your first time in the great city and you want to see the sights. Well, here is one! Just look at that—one of the great walls of the Kremlin . . . hundreds of years old!” His tone became reverent. “Inside those walls beats the heart of Mother Russia.”
Natasha felt a rush of emotion. “Can you take us to see the Cathedral of St. Basil the Blessed?”
The driver’s head bobbed several times. “Yes, of course. The beautiful cathedral. The cupolas all swirled and brightly painted.”
“And the Brotherhood Grave,” Sergey interrupted. “That is the main thing we wish to see.”
The driver slumped in his seat and flicked the lines over the rump of the horse. “Yes, comrade,” he said with a sigh. “I can take you to see the graves. I was there with my friend’s widow on the day the coffins were put in. I can tell you the whole story, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather see Pushkin’s statue, or go to a bar and drink vodka?”
* * *
Their driver’s name was Plekhanov, and after he had tied his horse to the post ring on the northeast side of the Kremlin, he guided them up the hill toward Red Square and the cathedral. Natasha had seen many churches in her lifetime, but this edifice was fantastical and mesmerizing. Photographs showed the shape, of course, but not the color, and her eyes and emotions could not take in the splendor.
“See, not one bit of damage,” Plekhanov was saying. “Some reports went out that the cathedral had been flattened during the fighting.” He shook his head. “Such nonsense. What a business. Boom! Crack! Fighting all around. Some damage to the Kremlin wall and one of the churches, but nothing of the sort of nonsense the papers were screaming.”
Natasha turned to see what Sergey Antonovich thought of the magical structure, but he had his back to the church. He was staring instead at the base of the north Kremlin wall where, beneath a row of leafing linden trees, ran a fifty-yard long swath of earth.
“Is that the grave?” he asked.
Plekhanov turned. “Huh? The grave? Oh, yes, that’s it.”
Sergey began walking across the square, the two following.
“I’ll tell you, it was cold the night we dug.”
Sergey did not stop, but glanced back at the driver. “You helped dig the grave?”
“Yes. Yes, of course, for my friend who had died.” He caught up to Sergey. “The ground was frozen, but there were hundreds of us digging. It was dark, but the Committee put torches up there on top the wall.”
Sergey stopped at the edge of the dirt and looked down the length of the massive grave site. “How many are here?”
Plekhanov crossed himself. “Five hundred, comrade. Maybe a few more than five hundred.”
Sergey’s head drooped and he reached out toward Natasha.
She took his hand and stood close to him.
“Tell us,” Sergey said in a choked whisper.
Plekhanov seemed momentarily at a loss for words. He took off his cap and rubbed his hand over his short hair. He hit the cap against the side of his leg several times, then brought it to rest over his heart. “You must understand, young ones, these are painful memories for me.”
Sergey nodded. “Yes, Comrade Plekhanov, we do understand, but it is important for us to know.”
Plekhanov cleared his throat. “Hmm. Yes, of course.” He put on his cap and folded his arms across his chest. “I went early to escort Madame Dybenko to the square. That is my friend’s widow. It was gloomy—sometimes snow—but hundreds of people were marching to the square. Many had red banners on poles. Snap! Snap! Snap! That’s how they went in the stiff breeze.” He rubbed a hand across his stubbly face. “We went to where the coffins were waiting. Just rough wood coffins with red stain brushed on. My friend Pasha Dybenko was a factory worker. There were many factory workers who died.” Plekhanov stamped his feet as if they were cold. “Some of the coffins had names on the top lid, some of the lids were off with a father and mother weeping over a son.” Sergey shook his head. “We found Pasha’s coffin because I’d nailed his fur hat on the top. He was always proud of that hat.” His voice cracked and Natasha reached over to touch his arm. “Big strong soldiers came and lifted the coffins onto their shoulders. Tears . . . tears were . . . streaming down their faces.” Plekhanov took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “We followed them into the square and there were thousands of people. I think a band was playing . . . yes, yes . . . there was a band playing, and the people were singing, and on the Kremlin wall”—he pointed—“all along there, they’d hung huge red banners that said things like ‘Martyrs of the World Social Revolution’ and ‘Long Live the Brotherhood of Workers.’ They had to lift the coffins over the hills of dirt we’d piled up from the digging. Up over the hills and down into the pit. One old babushka tried to jump in after her loved one. Others held her back, but she was kicking and scratching, howling like a wounded animal.” Plekhanov crossed himself and fell silent.
“And there were no priests to say prayers?” Natasha asked gently.
Sergey frowned at her. “Of course not. The Russian people no longer need priests to pray them into heaven. We are building a kingdom on this earth far brighter than any heaven can offer.”
Natasha stepped back. An emotion washed over her, and she was shaken when she realized it was not anger or sadness, but fear.
Plekhanov studied Sergey Antonovich warily. “It is true that all the churches were dark that day, comrade.” He pointed across the square. “Even the blessed Iberian Chapel, which always has candles burning, was locked tight.” He looked at Sergey straight on. “But I tell you, comrade, I said prayers for my friend, and they made me feel better . . . and I’m sure prayers were in the hearts of most of the Russian people that day. Their lips might have been singing the Internationale, but their hearts were praying for peace and understanding.”
Sergey gave him a condescending look. “How sad.” He turned away from them. “You two leave me alone now. I’ll meet you back at the wagon.”
As she moved across the square with Plekhanov, Natasha looked back to see Sergey walking the length of the grave site. She sighed and turned her gaze to the Cathedral of St. Basil the Blessed.
“You are not as Bolshevik as your friend,” Plekhanov said, giving her a crooked smile.
“Why do you say that?”
“I see how you look at this church,” he answered simply. “There is hope in your eyes for heavenly things.”
“I don’t believe in . . .” She could not finish the sentence. She looked up at the simple cross on the highest dome and started crying.
Plekhanov patted her back. “Ah, you may not believe, but you hope.”
“Yes. Yes, I do hope. I want the people of this beautiful country to have joy and contentment.”
“And is this why you ride around on the Red Train, because you think the Bolsheviks can bring joy and contentment?”
Natasha wiped her eyes on her sleeve and evaluated him. “Are you an anarchist?”
“Me?” he chuckled. “Heavens, no! I can’t afford to be carted away. Who would feed my horse?”
“But you don’t believe governments are any good.”
“Oh, no, no, comrade. We must have governments. With governments we have stability
. . . well, with good governments, anyway. The better the government, the better the stability.”
“You don’t believe the Soviet government will bring that stability?”
He gave her a sad smile. “I think our dear Mother Russia will suffer for many years.”
Natasha nodded. “There is great wisdom in you for a common man.”
Plekhanov tipped his hat to her. “Only one of the proletariat, comrade, and we actually do have some wisdom. In fact, it’s the intellectuals who think they’re the only ones who can think.”
Natasha laughed and dried the last of her tears.
“So . . . what will you do?” Plekhanov asked.
“I have no choice. I must stay with the train.”
“It will not be easy now that faith has planted a little seed in your heart.”
Melancholy enveloped her. “I know.” She looked up again to the brightly painted cathedral and the sadness retreated a step. She thought of Agnes saying her prayers, of the people silently praying at the Brotherhood funeral, of millions of her countrymen lifting their sorrows and dreams to God. How could a government silence those holy words, or keep a benevolent Heavenly Father from hearing?
She looked into the scruffy face of the wagon driver. “Will you pray for me, Comrade Plekhanov?”
He gave her a kind smile and nodded.
Notes
1. Portions of Plekhanov’s description of the events in Moscow were taken from John Reed’s book Ten Days That Shook the World.
2. The Kremlin wall necropolis in Moscow emerged in November 1917, when pro-Bolshevik victims of the October Revolution were buried in mass graves on Red Square. Lenin’s mausoleum, initially built of wood in 1924 and rebuilt in granite from 1929 through 1930, sits in the center of the gravesite. After the last mass burial was made in 1921, funerals on Red Square were reserved as the last honor for notable politicians, military leaders, cosmonauts, and scientists. John Reed is the only American buried there.
3. The route taken by the Red Train that Sergey and Natasha work on is fictional.
Chapter Forty
Medvenka
May 17, 1918
Natasha Ivanovna was soothed by the gentle motion of the train. The sound and sensation allowed her to escape the reality of the street meetings and propaganda. She did her work for the proletariat dictatorship, but her writing had become mere repetition. Fourteen days earlier at the Kursky Station, Sergey Antonovich had had to drag her onto the train. She’d watched Moscow slide away into the afternoon gloaming, thinking of Comrade Plekhanov, and his friend Pasha—Pasha who’d given his life for the revolution, and whose favorite fur hat was now buried with him in the Brotherhood Grave.
Over the weeks, the wagon driver’s words about government and faith mingled in her thinking along with edicts of communal living and ways to efficiently run a rural soviet, and, despite the fact that she worked hard to keep them at a distance, thoughts of home also edged their way into her mind. She wouldn’t let these stay long because they always included images of Agnes and her family, of the celebration of the New Year when she and Agnes and Arel had danced together, and of police trucks driving off into a dark night.
Natasha sat straighter in her seat and stretched her legs. The blue book fell to the floor and she bent down to retrieve it. She was nearing the final chapter—article thirteen. She smiled to think of the day Mr. Lindlof had presented the book to her. Did he know then what the words would come to mean to her? She breathed deeply and looked out the window. She loved to watch the landscape roll by with its forests, streams, and charming villages: Chekhov, Tula, Orel. So many of the fairy tales from her childhood seemed to come to life in the country settings: enchanted cottages and balalaika players, country festivals and dancing bears, houses that walked about on chicken legs, and magical birch trees.
“Natasha Ivanovna?” Sergey’s voice came unexpectedly into the train corridor.
She slid quietly off the seat and onto the floor, knowing she would be hidden from sight behind the canvas-covered printing press. She’d found the place of solitude not long after they’d left Moscow, and she now waited anxiously for the times when the press was dormant so she could hide away.
The door to the compartment was shoved open and she held her breath.
“Stupid girl,” Sergey’s disembodied voice mumbled, and Natasha felt a jab of pain in her stomach.
The door closed and she crawled back up onto the seat. Stupid girl? She chided herself for being surprised. As the train moved south, her enthusiasm for the work waned while Sergey’s increased, and she knew it affected their relationship. They still talked, but she quickly lost interest in his rhetoric and he grew irritated with her complacency. And recently his kisses had become more ardent, but less caring. He neglected her for arguments and discussions with Dmitri and Nicholai, yet insisted she be by his side each time he gave a speech.
His speeches were passionate, and Natasha could see their impact reflected in the faces of the simple Russian peasants. For them, Sergey Antonovich embodied Russia’s dynamic future where the Communist system would create prosperity, equality, and unity. Sergey was warm and persuasive, and many a village babushka came timidly to him at the end of a speech to touch the sleeve of his coat or pat his face.
The compartment door opened again, and she jumped. She looked over to see Nicholai Lvovitch staring at her.
“Natasha Ivanovna? Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you.”
She stood. “Me? Oh . . . oh, I’m sorry, Nicholai Lvovitch. I must have fallen asleep.” She put the book into her satchel and climbed up onto the seat. She edged her way around the printing press and Nicholai helped her. “Is something wrong?”
“Professor Prozorov has called a meeting.”
She let out an exasperated breath of air. “Professor Prozorov is always calling a meeting.”
Nicholai Lvovitch stopped in the corridor and turned to her, a look of genuine concern on his face. “Natasha Ivanovna, you must be very careful what you say.”
“What do you mean, Nicholai?”
The big man swallowed and looked around. “Professor Prozorov does not like you.”
“I’ve known that for a long time,” she said seriously.
“Yes, but he has asked us all to watch you.”
“What?”
“Shh . . . shh . . . keep your voice down.”
“Watch me? Does he think I’m a spy or something?” she hissed.
“No, not a spy . . . of course not. But he doesn’t trust you. You don’t care about the revolution like you used to.”
Natasha lowered her head. “I . . . I . . .” She stammered for words to refute the accusation.
Nicholai Lvovitch put his hand gently on her arm. “I understand, comrade. Your heart is at home and with your friend in Siberia.”
She looked up into his broad face. “How do you know about my friend?”
He flushed with guilt. “Well, I . . . I found out from Sergey Antonovich. He explained it to me and Dmitri.”
“Explained it?”
“He was upset for you . . . and . . . and so he told us.” He turned and began walking down the corridor. “Come on now. No time for talking.”
She started after him. “Nicholai!”
“No. I mean it. We must get to the meeting. You’ve caused enough trouble already.”
“What do you mean by that?” She called for him to stop, but he lumbered along as though he didn’t hear her.
A minute later they reached the dining car where the rest of the workers were already assembled. Nicholai dropped her at the side of Sergey Antonovich and went to stand in the shadows at the back of the room. She looked at him, wondering why such a slight misstatement would cause him such discomfort.
“Where were you?” Sergey ask
ed.
She turned to him with an engaging smile. “You don’t need to know all my secrets.”
He gave her a questioning look, but before he could reply, Professor Prozorov arrived.
“Good. You’re all here,” he said, his eyes resting for a moment on Natasha. He looked up. “The conductor has informed me that just before we left Kursk, the stationmaster received a telegram that a contingent of the White Army may be in the area.”
The tension in the room jumped and several of the workers called out invectives. Dmitri Borisovitch stood, his voice rising above the others. “So why did we leave Kursk? We would have been safer there!”
This sentiment was repeated and the din increased.
Professor Prozorov shouted them down. “Enough! Quiet! There is reason to believe the anarchists are closer to Voronezh, which is well east of here.”
Natasha scanned the room and many of the workers looked riotous.
The professor spoke loudly. “Command decided that it would be better to send us on to Medvenka.”
Dmitri clenched his fists. “Command decided? Decided from where . . . Moscow?”
Professor Prozorov stared him down. “That’s enough, comrade. We all knew this calling came with risks. We talked about it in our meetings. We set plans. Have you forgotten?”
Dmitri grunted and sat down.
The professor continued. “We have taken the red flags from the engine so as not to draw undue attention, and our escort of Red soldiers are on alert. They are armed with rifles, and we have field guns. We also have pistols and ammunition for all the workers. Those will be distributed after the meeting.”
The four female workers found each other’s eyes, trying to make a display of courage. The artist Sedova turned her face to the professor. “But there is only forest between here and Medvenka. We will be without any hope of assistance for what, four hours?”
Professor Prozorov gave her that unctuous smile that Natasha hated. “Comrade Sedova, we are well prepared to defend ourselves. Let’s not try to look over the mountain.” With that he ended the meeting, ignoring questions and assigning Nicholai Lvovitch and several others to distribute the pistols and ammunition.
