And I shouted the slogan we were told to shout everywhere: “Grab nagrablenoye!” Steal what was stolen!
“Grab nagrablenoye!” repeated an unseen soul.
“Hurrah!”
And soon enough those very words were echoed up and down the street, shouted by one comrade after another as they broke into shop after shop, stealing not only bread and wine but eggs and milk, then pants and fur hats and fine ladies’ dresses, too. It wasn’t too long, either, before I saw real flames licking one storefront, toasting everything in their path. There were cries of pain mixed with shouts of joy.
Then in the distance came the sound of hooves, and the crazy crowd quieted for just a moment-the Cossacks? We all paused to listen, pondering our fates. Had they come to mow us down with their silvery sabers? Come to chop off our heads like tall poppies?
But what appeared around the corner wasn’t the feared Cossacks on wild ponies but our Russian troops, some thirty or forty Russian comrades on horseback, one old officer at the head. With clouds of steam pouring from the snouts of their horses, and with not sabers but rifles and pistols waving overhead, the soldiers charged right up to us. We, the poor masses, stood as one, knowing that within seconds half of us would fall dead.
But then something so strange happened…
“Xleb!” cried one toothless babushka, staring up at the soldiers. “We are hungry! We just want xleb!”
Yet again, that was all it took, just one old peasant woman calling out the obvious, and one by one the soldiers lowered their rifles until there was but one last gun raised: that of their old commanding officer. But he wasn’t pointing his pistol at us. He was pointing his gun at his own soldier boys.
“Raise your guns!” he commanded his men. “Prepare to fire!”
But not one of his soldiers did as he was told. They just stared defiantly at the officer, their brooding eyes saying it alclass="underline" These are our own people, we will not fire upon our own brothers and sisters!
“I command you to take up your weapons and prepare to fire!” shouted the officer, his face bursting red as he trained his weapon on one particular soldier, a boy with blond hair. “Raise your weapons or I’ll fire upon-”
Suddenly there was a crack of gunfire, a noise so sharp that everyone fell silent. And gasped. At first I thought he’d done it, that the bastard officer had fired upon the blond lad, but no! One of the other soldiers had taken up his own weapon and fired on him, the officer! He shot his commander right in the face! For one long, shocking moment no one said anything, no one could guess what was going to happen next-would soldier start firing upon soldier, would they all fire upon us?-and we simply watched as the old officer, his white beard glistening with red blood, tumbled off his horse and fell to the ground dead as a log.
And then another of the soldier boys held his rifle high in the air and, in one long, glorious shout, cried, “Hurrah!”
The soldiers crossed over to the people, and in that second Russia changed completely. All the soldiers cried out in joy and the crowd whooped with delight, calling out to the soldier boys, welcoming them with bread and wine and brotherhood! Yes, it was mutiny, absolute mutiny! I shouted with joy, cried out with happiness! Unable to believe what was happening, I watched as one by one the soldiers leaped down from their horses and the people rushed toward them and embraced them, smiling and laughing.
Da, da, da, it was incredible, miraculous! I didn’t understand what was happening, and yet I did, I understood it all. This wasn’t like the revolution of twelve years ago when we the people had been battling the police and the soldiers, and the Cossacks, too. No, this was different. We were one, soldier and people and everyone else, united as one against the capitalist pigs and the warmongers and the tsar and his whore wife who sat upon all of us, the people! It was the Revolution, and this time I knew we would win!
Long live the Uprising of the Oppressed!
Chapter 37 ELLA
If one had pondered the war figures, one would have gone insane with worry: 1,500,000 of our brave men killed, 4,000,000 wounded, 2,000,000 taken prisoner. It was no wonder there was such despair, such rabble-rousing. It was no wonder, too, that riots akin to those of twelve years past broke out all over my beloved Moscow. By the end of that February, 1917, gunshots could be heard throughout the day and from every direction. Electricity ceased, as did the trams everywhere. The post and telegraphs as well. Worse, they said the prison doors all across town had been thrown wide open and that the homes for lunatics had been emptied as well. In quick speed almost every factory went on strike, and the streets themselves became totally derelict and frightfully dangerous, and while I forbade my sisters to travel beyond our walls, I refused to close and lock our gates. I was determined that all those in need should be able to reach us, that we must not cut ourselves off. Of course there were those who said I should take shelter once again behind the Kremlin walls, but I would not leave my sisters, for I had not decided those long years ago to leave the Kremlin only to be driven back to it by anarchy.
Word from the outside world was sparse at best, and though I sent letter after letter to Alicky, I doubted that any of them reached her, and certainly I received not a word from her. Yes, it was perfectly clear we were in the revolution again, right where we had been in 1905.
When the chaos late in the month was at its height, Countess Tarlova, one of my ladies from days past, somehow managed to make her way to my community, not arriving by carriage or motorcar but on foot and in simplest dress. I knew she had been in Petrograd and yet she had somehow managed her way here, despite the railways having halted.
It was she who brought the monumental news, she who delivered the blow.
“Well, what of it?” I desperately asked, rising to my feet when this faithful woman was shown into my reception room. “Did you see my sister? Is there any news of Nicky?”
In that instant, tears bloomed in her eyes, and in French she muttered but a single word: “Abdiqué!”
It was a knife to my heart-Nicky had abdicated!-and instantly I began weeping. “But… but…”
I could not walk, could speak no more, and were it not for this good Countess I certainly would have fallen. My confusion was immense. How could Nicky have been pulled from the Throne? What trials had the Lord Himself hurled upon poor Russia? For a good long while I could find no wisdom, no understanding, and my lady held me tightly, steadying me as my tears came aplenty, whereupon I somehow managed my way to my private chapel. Sinking to my knees, I fell to the floor and bowed before the altar and my icons, pressing my head down upon the stone. Even in my prayers I could not restrain my tears, and there I stayed well into the depths of the night, chanting and bowing and searching for the wisdom of the God Almighty. My sorrow knew no depth-what lay ahead for my dear, dear Russia?-and I took relief only in the Jesus Prayer, chanting it over and over, some three or four hundred times, in Church Slavonic: “Gospodi Isusye Xristye Siin Bozhii pomiloi mnye greshnuyuu.” Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Yes, as I had been taught, I prayed without ceasing, hoping to find humility, hoping to bring my mind into my heart, hoping to reach a greater understanding.
Sleep came eventually but reluctantly, and I rested a mere hour, perhaps two at most. The monumental news of Nicky’s fall reached the city the following day, but instead of bringing appeasement it only accelerated the chaos. There were reports of palaces and homes of every sort being plundered and burned, and all around us I could see it, too, gray plumes of smoke rising into the wintry sky. Desperate word came round as well of murders of every sort, that merchant so-and-so had been gunned down and his clothing store plundered, that sundry princes and even princesses had been butchered in their own homes, and, unbelievably, that almost all our faithful soldiers had mutinied and shot officers here and there all about the city. My heart was breaking, and I sent telegram after telegram to my sister, but they all came back, not one delivered, and it would be some time before I learned that Kerensky, head of the Provisional Government, had placed Nicky and she and all the children under arrest there at Tsarskoye, their own home having become their own prison. Russia it seemed had come right to the edge of a dangerous precipice and not turned away but thrown herself head over heels into the dark waters below. For months thereafter I could not speak of my sister without weeping.