Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  “Comrade Lenin, may I introduce the newest member of the St Petersburg Soviet – Ivan Horobets.”

  I see the curve of a smile in Lenin’s face. Chkeidze, Lenin and Horobets form a little knot at the back of the room, speaking together, their conversation unheard amid the excited hubbub of the room. I try to catch their words, but I can hear nothing. But as I look at the three men I see, above the neckline of Horobets’ ill-fitting shirt and tie, the links of a silver necklace.

  12 Revolution in October

  The appearance of Doctor Jansons in my ward surprises us all. One of our best doctors, a hematologist who specialises in treating casualties with blood infections, he’s normally far too busy to visit us.

  “Ladies!” he shouts, in his usual jokey style. “I have news for you all. I suppose you’ve all enjoyed the glorious summer of 1917, relaxing and sunning yourselves on the banks of the Neva? Or spending your time flirting with these Red Guards, who seem to be everywhere these days?”

  There are smiles from the nurses. Doctor Jansons is good-looking and charming; he can get away with saying anything. He continues.

  “But now summer’s over. September is going to be our busiest month ever. I have to tell you that thousands of casualties are right now in trains, bound for St Petersburg. Several hundred of them will be brought to the Winter Palace Hospital. The reason for this increase in numbers is that we have suffered a major defeat. The Germans have crossed the Daugava River and captured Riga. Russia has lost the pearl of the Baltic.”

  He speaks clearly and calmly, but I notice the glint of tears on his cheeks as he turns briskly and leaves the ward: I hear his feet clattering down the corridor. Sister Kusnetsova and I are making up new beds: she whispers to me. “Only Jansons could put such a brave face on such news. You know, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know. Doctor Jansons is Latvian. All his family are in Riga.”

  “Such a distinguished man! Before the war, he was the most sought-after private hematology consultant in Russia; all his patients were aristocrats. But he volunteered to work here, the first day the Winter Palace Hospital was opened.” She carries on praising his virtues, as we spread sheets and prepare bed after bed for new occupants.

  As Doctor Jansons predicted, the next few weeks were horribly busy. It is now the last week in October, and our ward is full of injured Latvian Riflemen; their regiment stayed by the river to protect the retreat of the main Russian Army from Riga. The Germans threw everything at the Latvians; several patients are bandaged head-to-foot, like mummies. They are burned victims of a new German terror-weapon; the flamethrower.

  But this afternoon, it’s quiet on the ward; most patients are sleeping. I have the opportunity to read a letter from Professor Axelson, who continues to be busy in Helsinki; so far away, I think. But even Helsinki is close, compared to home. I think of Ma, Pa and Abe. In my mind, I see the New England woods, copper and gold with the fall colours. Only now, with this pause in my work, do I realise how I feel. I look down at the professor’s letter: it’s soaked with my tears.

  “Now don’t cry! Cheer up, Auxiliary Frocester! I have some good news for you. Between you and me, I think you have an admirer – a man who is very keen to see you.”

  It’s Doctor Jansons’ voice, warm and positive, and I find that I feel just a little bit better. But I’m surprised by his words.

  “Who?”

  “A Cossack cavalry captain has been brought in; he’s on one of the ground-floor wards. Don’t worry; he’s not seriously injured. A broken arm – but the bone pierced the skin, and he developed a blood infection at the field hospital in Latvia. He’s healing well now. I took a blood sample from him, but the only question he asked me was ‘Does Agnes Frocester still work here?’”

  Yuri is sitting up in bed, his left arm in a plaster cast; he greets me with a smile. “Last time you and I were in a hospital, it was your Swedish professor who was in the bed. This time, you must bring the tea, for me. I think you would call this role-reversal?”

  “What happened to you?”

  “As you know, Agnes, I like telling stories. I’ll pick up my tale where I left you: back in February, at the demonstration on the Nevsky Prospect. Me and my men continued to try to impose order – but without shooting civilians, like that idiot Aristarkhov wanted us to. By the way, he disappeared that same day: people say he’s in hiding. He’s a senior general, an important figure – but all the same, there is no respect for former authority now. Several military men connected with Okhrana have been lynched by the crowds.”

  “And you?...”

  “As you know, the demonstrations stopped when the Tsar abdicated. The city calmed down. So I got sent back to my regiment in Latvia, on the good old Daugava River. Then last month, the Germans crossed the river in boats: then they set up pontoon bridges, and soon there were thousands of them across the river, all equipped with the most up-to-date weapons: armored cars, machine guns. We were with our horses – Cossack cavalry armed with hunting rifles and sabres! The Germans attacked us with airplanes, dropping bombs. Embarrassing to say, my own horse panicked and threw me to the ground. And then he stamped on my arm. So that’s how I got my glorious war wound.”

  “A wound is a wound.”

  “I agree. There are no heroes and no cowards in this war. Just millions of exhausted, scared men, who are wasting years of their lives far from their homes and families.”

  “I agree. That’s what I saw in France, and now it’s true of all the patients I see here in Russia.”

  “Us Cossacks are traditional people, Agnes. When the war came, I was happy to respect the Tsar’s authority, and even the orders of men like Aristarkhov. But now, all I want is to go home. I want to be back in Astrakhan; to see the sun rising over the steppes, the warm southern summers, the boats on the Volga, the blue Caspian Sea. I suppose you want to go home, too?”

  I can’t help it. His question touches a raw nerve: my tears start again, more than ever. I feel his right arm around me, and the moments pass in silence.

  Four days have now passed since Yuri arrived. It’s late in the evening, and Sister Kusnetsova and I are taking tea to the patients before lights-out. As we wheel along the trolley carrying the familiar samovar, questions ring out at us. “What is happening across the city?” Sister Kusnetsova stands in the middle of the room and answers them all.

  “We don’t know for sure. But we’ve heard that the Red Guards have taken over many government buildings throughout St Petersburg.”

  There’s a chorus from the patients. “That’s good! The Red Guards are the ones who’ve brought law and order back to the city. Unlike those useless bureaucrats in the Provisional Government –”

  The voices are cut off by a blast like thunder. The air is alive: filled with flying, shattering glass. All around the ward, windows explode. I shut my eyes, cover my face, and feel shards of glass hitting my hands.

  The blast stops, as suddenly as it started. I drop my hands from my face; amazingly, I’m not bleeding. But I look around the room: our patients are showered in broken fragments from the windows. I see trails of blood from hands, faces and eyes.

  One or two patients, the ones who suffer from bad nerves, start screaming. But strangely, there’s no other noise. Whatever destroyed the windows has now stopped. I look at Sister Kusnetsova; her face is covered in blood, but she speaks calmly.

  “We are – under fire, it seems. Patients, please keep calm. We’ll move your beds away from the windows. Then, we’ll come round to look at each of you, and see who is hurt.”

  All patients who can walk get up from their beds and help us push beds into the middle of the room. As she and I bend our backs to push a bed, Sister Kusnetsova dabs her face. “See – not so bad. Just a cut above my eyelid, that’s all.”

  Soon, all the beds are clustered in the centre of the room. But the odd quiet goes on. I go to one of the broken windows and look out. I can see nothing, except the Neva River glittering in the sharp moonlight
. The city is dark and silent. Across the river, the Peter and Paul Fortress is a squat, grim shape. The moon glints on the guns that line the parapets of its walls. I know that the soldiers garrisoned there now support Lenin and his Bolshevik party; many of them have joined the Red Guards. But would they actually open fire on a hospital? Time goes on, and no-one comes to the ward to tell us what is happening. In the tense, waiting silence, Sister Kusnetsova and I treat the wounds from the broken glass. Fortunately, no-one is seriously hurt: all the injuries are shallow cuts. We go round each patient in turn, dabbing the cuts with antiseptic. Then she speaks under her breath to me.

  “Why has no-one come to explain what’s going on?”

  “I have no idea, Sister. Shall I go to find someone?”

  “Yes. Just get hold of anyone who can tell us what to do. After all, we might need to evacuate the hospital.”

  I leave the ward and descend the stairs. The ground floor corridor is in darkness. My fingers find a light-switch, but it doesn’t work. The gunfire, if that is what it was, must have affected the ground floor electricity supply.

  I walk along the corridor, hands outstretched, feeling my way in the dark. My fumbling hands touch the frame of a door. I realise that it leads into the ward where Yuri is, and I step inside.

  It’s silent as the grave. There appear to be no staff in here, and it’s unlit, with just a faint light coming through draped windows. In the gloom I can make out the rows of beds, and the mounded shapes of resting patients. I remember that Yuri’s bed was the fifth on the left. I go over to him, and whisper.

  “Yuri! Did you hear that gunfire?”

  “I did, Agnes. I’m glad you’ve arrived: you can be my excuse to go and find out what on earth is going on.”

  Other patients start calling out. Yuri answers “Don’t worry, and no-one try to move. I will go and find out what is happening.” His eyes look at me in the dim light. “Despite my arm, Agnes, I’ve already managed to change into my uniform. I decided that in this situation, it might be useful to look like a Cossack.”

  We leave the ward, and return to the blackness of the corridor. We start walking: the passageway seems to go on for ever. Neither of us speak; we’re listening, and watching in the gloom for any hospital staff who might know what is happening. But everywhere is entirely deserted.

  Finally, I hear Yuri’s quiet voice. “Here.” He pushes open a door, and we enter. I feel like a mouse, creeping silently into a giant’s chamber.

  It must be one of the biggest state rooms of the Winter Palace. The room is unlit, but its undraped windows are so vast that the moon shines in like day. I see colossal curves and silhouettes of rococo decoration, and gigantic crystal chandeliers glitter in the moonlight. But oddly, I smell stale sweat, cigarette smoke and alcohol. I whisper.

  “What’s that awful smell?”

  “I think this room is occupied, Agnes.”

  On the marble floor are rows of mattresses and blankets. On some of the mattresses, people are lying, smoking: I see the tiny red glows of their cigarette-butts. In the middle of the room is a ornately carved table, and on it are some half-eaten loaves of bread, and dozens of empty wine bottles.

  A voice cries out. “Who goes there?”

  Yuri answers gently. “You are an alert cadet! None of your comrades even noticed us.”

  A pale-faced young man steps forward into a patch of moonlight: he reminds me of the young soldiers I saw on the Nevsky Prospect. Yuri is looking around the room, sizing up the situation. Then he turns again to the boy.

  “What’s all this?” Yuri points to the window sills, where I see, in the moonlight, piled sandbags and the glinting barrels of machine guns.

  “Ah – sir. We were told to defend the Winter Palace, sir.”

  “Defend it against what?”

  “I wasn’t told that, sir.”

  “The rest of your platoon seems to have been helping itself to the Tsar’s wine-cellars rather than defending the Palace. I think you are the only sober cadet in this room – well done, young man. But what was that gunfire we heard? All the windows are shattered in one of the hospital wards.”

  “Something is happening over there in the Provisional Government offices, sir. I tried to wake my commander, but...”

  “I see. Your commander has fallen a victim to Moët and Bollinger. Don’t worry. This nurse and I will go and find out what is happening. You stay here with your troop. What other units are stationed in the Winter Palace to guard the Provisional Government?”

  “There were some Cossacks, Sir, but they left this afternoon. And there is a women’s home defence battalion. And us cadets. That’s all.”

  Yuri listens and nods; the boy carries on. “The Provisional Government ministers are in one of the upstairs state rooms, sir. But Mr Kerensky, their leader, has left. He came into this room this afternoon, and asked me to get some gasoline for his car. I brought a can for him. Then later, I saw him driving away with three armed guards.”

  “Well done, young man. That’s very useful information.” Yuri and I leave the cadet, and walk across the cavernous space of the room into yet another corridor, where vast gilt-framed paintings of battle scenes alternate with equally huge windows.

  “Look!” Yuri points out into the courtyard. The far side is in deep shadow, but I can dimly make out many figures, moving silently in the gloom. Yuri watches them for a moment, then turns to me.

  “They’re Red Guards, Agnes. They are taking over the palace for Lenin and his Bolsheviks. This is the end of the Provisional Government.”

  “My concern isn’t the government, it’s the hospital. Let’s go back to the wards and let everyone know.”

  We go back to the door we came through; I reach out and take the handle.

  “Yuri! The door’s been locked.”

  He shouts fiercely through the door. “Unlock this, will you! We need to get back to the hospital! And by the way, there are about a hundred men of the Red Guards approaching across the palace courtyard. You may be under attack.”

  A drunken voice answers. “I’m the commander of this cadet unit. Are you Red Guards?”

  “No! The Red Guards are out there in the courtyard. Let us in!”

  “You’re lying to me. Cadets – the Bolsheviks are breaking in! Prepare to shoot if anyone smashes down that door!”

  “All right, all right. I can see that you won’t let us in. But I advise you against shooting anyone. Don’t inflame the situation. If anyone comes into the building, talk to them, rather than trying to use your guns.”

  Yuri turns to me. “Thankfully, I noticed that those machine guns the cadets had in the windows aren’t loaded anyway. They may have some rifles though, and there’s a risk that one of those drunken boys might imagine he’s a hero and take pot-shots. But there’s nothing we can do about that. Let’s try to find the hospital staff, and warn them about what is happening.”

  We run back along the passageway. Glancing through the windows, I see that the figures in the courtyard are closer: the moon illuminates caps, jackets and faces. The crimson color of their sashes glows in the gloom, and the moonlight glints on the metal of hundreds of rifles and bayonets. The figures are approaching steadily, like a tide; there’s nothing we or anyone can do to stop them.

  Yuri runs much faster than me, and I’m hampered by my nurse’s uniform, but he doesn’t leave me behind. “Come on, Agnes! There’s not much time left to warn anyone.”

  We race along the passage in the darkness, without knowing where we are going. Finally we reach the end of the corridor. A marble staircase leads upwards, and we climb it hastily. Above us, I see light: the upper floors still have electricity.

  At the top of the stairs is a wide landing, carpeted in scarlet and lit by huge chandeliers. After the darkness I’m almost blinded by the glittering glare. In front of us is a door that appears to be made of pure gold. It’s ajar, and I hear voices inside. Yuri pushes it open.

  I have an impression of overpowering ma
gnificence: amid a forest of gold scrollwork are Corinthian columns that appear to be made of green jewels. But I hardly look at the room, because I see that we’ve walked into the middle of a meeting. A dozen faces turn to stare at us. The group of soberly-dressed elderly and middle-aged men sit around a huge table made of the same green crystal. Each man has a pile of papers in front of him. They all look at Yuri as if they’ve been expecting him.

  “Are the cars here, officer?”

  “I know nothing about cars. I’m here to warn you that a hundred or so Red Guards are trying to enter the palace. They are heavily armed. And there may be many more of them, that we didn’t see.”

  I see expressions of dismay, although I also hear sighs, as if some of the men are resigned to the situation. Yuri continues.

  “I’ve talked to the cadets defending the palace, and advised them not to resist the attack. Fighting back will only lead to unnecessary bloodshed. The Red Guards are superior in both numbers and weapons.”

  The men don’t reply to Yuri: they look at each other. It’s as if they have already forgotten our presence. Several of them speak at once, all looking at a man with glasses and a stand-up collar.

  “Vice-president Konovalov, this is what we’ve been expecting.”

  The man pushes his seat back, stands and looks at them all. Despite his old-fashioned looks, he is brisk and direct. “Indeed. This is the end of the Provisional Government. Let’s go into the private dining room and discuss what we should do.”

  All the men push back their chairs, get up and go through another door into an ante-room. Yuri shakes his head. “I think we’ve done all we can here. Let’s see if we can find some other way back through the palace to the hospital wing.”