Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  Aristarkhov looks along the line of soldiers. Then he steps over to the boy. “Stand up. Be a man.” He hits the young soldier in the ribs.

  “Look! He’s even attacking his own men now!” The women all start shouting at Aristarkhov. But the black-haired woman doesn’t shout. Instead, she takes a single step forward. She stretches out her hand, and slowly, so slowly, touches the rifle that points into her face. She grips the metal, gently. The soldier holding the gun is another mere boy. He looks at Aristarkhov, then at the woman. The woman pushes the barrel down, and the soldier co-operates with her. He lowers his rifle until it points at his own feet. There is now a dead silence.

  From the far side of the street, Yuri appears. He runs over, mouthing his words quietly to Aristarkhov so the crowd don’t hear. But I can make out what he’s saying.

  “Sir, I won’t carry out your orders. I will not order my troops to kill unarmed people. Instead, you need to talk to this crowd, sir. You must get a grip on this situation. Or I could speak to the protesters, if you will permit that.”

  Several woman are now reaching out towards the soldiers. All along the line, the troops are lowering their rifles. But, as Aristarkhov and Yuri argue, I see one of the plain-clothes Okhrana officers step forward towards the general. Aristarkhov turns his face from Yuri, deliberately ignoring him. Instead, he’s listening to the Okhrana officer. I catch only fragments of the words the man is saying. “Sedition… mutiny… treason.” Aristarkhov nods in agreement.

  Some of the soldiers hear the man’s words, too. They are turning to look at him, rage in their eyes. The boy who was sick is now standing again. His face is as white as a skull, and he stares wild-eyed at the general. Suddenly, louder than ever, the crowd shouts again. “Bloody Nicholas! Down with the war, down with the Tsar!”

  The boy lifts his rifle to his shoulder, and pulls the trigger. The plain-clothes Okhrana official falls, and lies in a crumpled pile at Aristarkhov’s feet. And I hear a new chorus of voices – young men’s voices, loud and strong, chanting “Bloody Nicholas!”. It’s the soldiers. The soldiers themselves are pulling the barricades aside, and the group of women step forward into the gap, followed by others. There are hundreds now, and the soldiers are mingling with the surging crowd. Many of them throw down their military caps, but every one still holds his rifle. Every gun is now pointing the other way.

  I look at the professor. “Let’s run. Back the way we came.”

  We’re about a hundred yards down the street: I risk a glance back. I see that not just the regular soldiers but many Cossacks, too, are now joining the protesters. The Ohkrana officials are running away in terror. General Aristarkhov, and Yuri, are nowhere to be seen.

  11 To the Finland Station

  “Riot and revolution, and the Tsar has abdicated, but nothing’s changed. The war goes on, and the Germans keep on slaughtering us like lambs. This week, we’ve had more admissions to the hospital than ever.” Sister Kusnetsova, who is in charge of our ward, speaks softly; many of the patients are taking a midday nap.

  “Things may be changing for me, though, Sister. A few days ago, the United States entered the war. Until last week, I was a neutral person in Russia; now I’m your ally.”

  “And Okhrana, who kept you prisoner in Russia, has vanished like smoke! Do you think you’ll be able to travel home to America? Or you could nurse American soldiers, on the Western Front?...”

  “I hope so. I think the professor and I can now sail back to Sweden without obstacles. I told you about Mr Bukin, and how he stopped us travelling. Well, I went to his office yesterday, to ask about leaving Russia. I found the place closed down, and there was one of those guards there – the ones with the red sashes. He told me that everyone working in the office had been arrested. I said ‘By whom?’ and he said ‘By the people’. So then, I went over to the harbormaster’s office and asked them about Shipping Regulation 15A: they said they’d never heard of it!”

  “So you’re free to go.”

  “I’m not planning to quit immediately, Sister. Professor Axelson and I will travel back to Sweden together, before I go on to France or the States. But the professor gave a promise to visit the Lapinlahti psychiatric hospital in Helsinki for a month or so, to examine and treat their shell-shock victims. He’ll honor that promise, before we leave. So it will be a few weeks before we leave Russia.”

  “Has he gone to Helsinki yet?”

  “He’s catching his train today. Would you allow me, Sister, to take the afternoon off, and go with the professor to the Finland Station, to see him off on his journey?”

  As Professor Axelson and I walk down the steps of the hospital onto the Palace Embankment, we see an odd sight. Scores of middle-aged men, dressed in fine suits, are surrounded by a cordon of armed soldiers. The whole group is coming up the steps from the Embankment towards us. The lieutenant leading the soldiers gives me a cheeky smile; I go over to him.

  “Excuse me, officer… I’m just curious. What is happening here?”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss! Me and my men are escorting members of the Provisional Government, who have taken over running the country, now that the Tsar has stepped down. They are setting up office in the Winter Palace. Half the building will remain as a hospital; the other half will become the seat of Russia’s new government.”

  Compared with the ornate Vitebsky terminal, the Finland Station is a small building; its roof is not much higher than the tops of the double-decker trams that pass in front of it. An archway below a large clock leads to the platforms, which to my surprise are crowded with people. An announcement rings out. “The Grand Duchy Express to Vyborg and Helsinki is standing on Platform One, but departure is delayed due to a fault with the engine.”

  It’s no surprise: the professor smiles thinly.

  “Yet another opportunity, Miss Agnes, to practise a useful but rare virtue: patience.”

  “That’s very philosophical of you, Professor.”

  “I am not naturally a patient man. But we all need to be patient – especially here in Russia. Now the United States has joined the Allies, Germany is on the brink of defeat. Russia could still emerge victorious from this war, and rebuild – with a democratic government at the helm. It will be terribly hard, but better than any alternative.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, I do. Starting this war was the stupidest mistake in the whole of human history. But if Russia begs for a cease-fire now, it will be another mistake. The Kaiser’s peace terms will be utterly crippling. He will rule all the lands from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Some say he will even insist on the Provisional Government gifting St Petersburg to him. But if Russia can hold on, then by next year, the Germans will be defeated.”

  “Most people seem to want the Provisional Government to make peace as soon as possible, at any price.”

  “Right now, the people of Russia just want the war to be over. They can’t see beyond that, because they are exhausted by misery and suffering. Patience, as I mentioned, has become a rare thing.”

  For some reason I recall Lord Buttermere’s words that likened Russia to an express train, speeding to its doom. Since the February revolution, I’ve seen shops being looted, and gangs of men openly carrying guns and knives. There are hardly any policemen about: most were associated with Okhrana, and have been dismissed. Whenever I go out of the hospital, I’ve taken to carrying the gun that Yuri and I found at Tri Tsarevny. It doesn’t work, of course; but it might frighten an attacker off.

  “It’s cold on this platform, Miss Agnes. Nor do I want to board a train that may not depart for several hours. Instead, let’s wait in there. After all, it is no longer reserved for royalty.”

  The professor points across the platform to a large, ornate doorway, out of proportion with the rest of the station. Above it, a carved double-headed eagle has been vandalized; its heads have been broken off, as has the orb and sceptre that it used to hold in its talons. Axelson smiles at me. “It used to be the Tsar’s priva
te waiting-room. It’s now a café, for all to use.”

  We walk towards the broken symbol of imperial authority, and the professor explains.

  “Nicholas II had his own personal waiting-room at this station, even though he never bothered to visit Finland. He simply sent his deputies to try to bully the Finn people.”

  I see a poster that someone has hastily pasted up on the wall: a print that shows a nymph-like girl with flaxen hair, holding a banner saying “Freedom for Finland”. The professor follows my gaze.

  “You would like the Finnish nation, Miss Agnes. Like you, they are keen on fairness and equality. Back in 1906 they declared suffrage for all, including women. Then of course, the Tsar’s government stamped on their plans. Now, their hopes for independence from Russia are rising fast.”

  Among the masses of people on the platform, I notice a woman standing close by, nodding to herself in agreement at the professor’s remarks. Then I look at her face again. I have no doubt; her features are etched on my mind. It’s the woman who spoke out against the Tsar and faced down the soldiers. I can’t help myself.

  “Excuse me – I’m Agnes Frocester; this is Professor Axelson. And we saw what you did two months ago, in the demonstrations on the Nevsky Prospect. I admire your courage.”

  The woman is maybe in her late thirties. There’a a wry smile in the fine-boned face, framed by dark locks.

  “Well, well! I travel six thousand miles from home, stand on a railway platform, and a Yankee steps up and starts talking to me.”

  It’s rude, but my mouth drops open in surprise. The woman carries on. “I’m a Southerner, you see. New Orleans is my hometown. My name’s Emily Neale. Good to meet you both.”

  I’m taken aback. “I thought you were Russian…”

  “I first joined those protest marches on International Women’s Day, and I took part each day after that. I didn’t do it as a Russian, but as a woman and as a citizen of the world. It started as a march to protest about bread rations – but it became something much bigger than that. Let me buy you some tea, now that we’re allowed to use Nicky the Despot’s private waiting-room.”

  As we step into the café, the professor looks into my face, then at the woman. “Miss Emily – you look alike! You could almost be Miss Agnes’ older sister.”

  “Older? I never admit to being over twenty-one, Professor Axelson! But seriously – yes, I’m unusual, for a Louisiana-born girl. There’s nothing Creole about me. My family’s roots are in Ireland; we sailed to New Orleans in the 1700s.” She looks at me. “Have you heard of the Irish Channel neighborhood?”

  “I have to confess, I’ve never been south of New York.”

  The café is even more crowded than the platform; it’s small, but there must be a hundred or more people in here. But two men among the crowd draw my attention, because both of them are looking at us.

  One is well-dressed, a commanding presence; he stands at the centre of a group of men, and they are listening to him. The other is very different. A much bigger man, almost a giant, he sits alone in a corner. He seems uncomfortable; not just with the situation, but with his suit and tie, as if he’s ill-accustomed to them. He wears a fixed smile, and steals a furtive glance at us.

  In contrast, the well-dressed man comes over to greet us. “Good to see you, Comrade Neale!”

  Emily smiles. “May I introduce Nikolay Chkheidze? He is Chairman of the St Petersburg Soviet – the council of workers’ representatives.”

  The man grins. “I overheard Comrade Neale telling you of her southern roots. I’m proud to be a southerner too. I grew up in Georgia. But not Georgia, USA.” We all laugh at his little joke, but he carries on. “I insist on buying tea, for all of us. Because this is a day of hope.” He looks at the professor and me. “Are you also here to greet Comrade Lenin?”

  I answer. “Sorry – who?”

  Chkheidze smiles at me and Axelson. “I see that you are foreigners here, you may not know what is happening. All these people here at the Finland Station – we are not waiting to catch a train. We are here to see the turning of Russia’s destiny.”

  I hear the noise of a whistle: a train is arriving. There’s an expectant hubbub of noise both in the café and on the platform. But the professor speaks quietly in my ear. “Russia’s destiny may indeed be arriving today at this railroad station. But what kind of destiny?”

  “Professor, what do you know about this? I’ve never even heard of Lenin.”

  “Lenin was exiled from Russia to Switzerland years ago, because of his extreme revolutionary ideas. But now, Kaiser Wilhelm has supported Lenin’s return, permitting him to travel from his exile in Zürich, through Germany, so he could reach Finland, and now Russia. Lenin travelled through the length of Germany in a sealed railway carriage. No-one got on, or off, that train.”

  “It sounds a strange business!”

  “Wilhelm did not want Lenin stepping onto German soil. He knew that Lenin would take any opportunity to preach revolution and rebellion to German citizens, and the Kaiser doesn’t want that! Instead, Wilhelm wants Lenin to incite revolution here.”

  “But we’ve had a revolution already.”

  “We had street protests. Now we have a Provisional Government of well-to-do, well-meaning gentlemen. That’s not what Lenin would call revolution.”

  The cheering is now tumultuous; too loud for the professor to speak further. A gap in the crowd reveals a man stepping down from the train; he lifts his bowler hat to greet everyone. His eyes are steely, but otherwise he looks like an ordinary, middle aged man. Yet the excitement in the crowd is like electricity. Indeed, I find myself feeling a tremor inside, a little unexpected thrill. The quiet-looking man on the platform seems like the awaited savior, a messiah returning at last to his people. Every face in the crowd is open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

  On cue, a woman steps up to Lenin with a bouquet of flowers, and a brass band is playing the Marseilleise. He is smiling warmly, waving to everyone. But after taking the flowers, he steps briskly towards our café.

  The door is thrown open wide for him. He walks in, and Chkheidze steps forward, shakes Lenin’s hand, and looks around the expectant faces in every corner of the café. There’s suddenly a perfect silence: I can hear the deep breaths of every person in the room. The air of the café is alive with anticipation. Chkheidze clears his throat, and makes a speech of welcome.

  “Comrade Lenin, in the name of the St Petersburg Soviet, we welcome you to Russia. We hope that you will join us in defending our revolutionary democracy.”

  Lenin doesn’t immediately reply. I see him looking evenly around the room, catching every person’s eyes, one by one. He looks utterly confident. His eyes are hard and intense, but his face is relaxed, and he seems happy to take a few moments of quiet, before responding to Chkheidze’s welcome.

  The silence goes on. Lenin glances casually up at the ornate ceiling, decorated with the Tsar’s double-headed eagles, and then he calmly rearranges the flowers in his bouquet. He’s showing everyone that he will answer Chkheidze’s greeting in his own time. And I feel that he knows exactly what to say.

  “My train was late.” He looks around the crowded café; laughter breaks out.

  “Of course, every train in Russia is always late. But my dear comrades, we all know that a railway cannot be fixed in a day. The so-called Provisional Government, who claim to have taken over authority from Tsar Nicholas, say they will mend not only the trains, but everything else that is wrong with Russia.”

  There’s a murmur of agreement around the room, and Lenin smiles.

  “Those rich gentlemen of the Government, who have just moved into the Tsar’s Winter Palace, enjoy their vodka, their caviar and their cigars. But they say that once they have finished smoking their cigars, they will get round to fixing the annoying problems that the rest of us face. Little problems, like war and starvation.”

  Every head in the room is nodding; Lenin’s words are tailored exactly to match the feelings of
his audience. I watch his determined, calculating eyes, looking round and assessing the mood of the room, before he continues.

  “Maybe you all believe the Provisional Government’s promises. But I know that they are trying to deceive you and the whole Russian people.

  The real answers are simple, my friends. Our troops are being massacred: the people need peace. Workers and their families go hungry: the people need bread.”

  As he pauses briefly, people start to applaud. But he has more to say: his voice is clear as a bell, and rises to a crescendo of emotion.

  “We must challenge the Provisional Government – until ordinary Russians have everything they need. Victory to the working people! Peace and bread!”

  The café erupts in rapturous applause and shouting. Emily cheers and yells. Chkheidze applauds too – but then leans over to Lenin.

  “Comrade Lenin, when you have a moment, I would like your view on a matter of extreme urgency. Since the disbanding of Okhrana, the St Petersburg Soviet has formed volunteer units, to act as police and keep peace on the streets – the Red Guards. They are struggling to cope. There is an epidemic of looting and violence in St Petersburg.”

  The background noise is deafening: a rhythm of chanting breaks out. “Le-nin! – peace and bread! Le-nin! – peace and bread!” In the tiny space of the café, it makes my head hurt. The professor and I, and Chkeidze and Lenin, are the only ones not chanting.

  Lenin doesn’t answer Chkeidze’s question. He seems distracted – but not by the noise. His eyes are scanning the room, looking for someone in the crowd, someone he’s not spotted yet.

  Axelson says something to me, but I can’t hear him. The deafening chants go on, but I notice a clatter at the back of the room. The huge man who was sitting alone, the man who was watching the professor and me, is rising from his chair. Lenin speaks quietly to Chkeidze, who leads him over to the man. In a brief lull in the noise, I catch Chkeidze’s words.